


The Way Out

by awed_frog



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Feels, Canon Compliant, Christmas Gloom, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2016, Declarations Of Love, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Friendship, M/M, Pining, Profound Bond, Team Free Will, Time Travel, Undying Love, Young Winchesters, an hour of wolves and shattered shields, christmas cheer, general misery, unethical use of John Donne, welcome to Florence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 05:21:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 67,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8315497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awed_frog/pseuds/awed_frog
Summary: Things are going pretty good, which is why Dean should have seen it coming. Sam and Toni are so in love it’s disgusting, the big monsters are all gone or dead, and Dean and Cas - yeah, okay, so they kissed and now they're kind of together, okay? Shut up.No, the second Dean had caught himself thinking about food processors and beach holidays, he should have fucking known his happy ending would turn around and kick him in his fucking teeth. And now it has, and they're supposed to get on a damn plane and put on monkey suits and have Christmas dinner at Lord and Lady Bevell's, and Dean just can't - he can't face it, he can't breathe, he can't even see through the injustice of it all, because Cas - Cas -   Tell me why. I deserve that much, at least.





	1. Foreword

**Author's Note:**

> The art for this fic was created by wonderful, wonderful **heartmurmur** \- please don't forget to check out her [ ART MASTERPOST](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8296882) (if you don't want any spoilers, read the story first).

# 

_How blest am I in this discovering thee!_  
_To enter in these bonds, is to be free;_  
_Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be._  
John Donne

 **One**. Guys - I'm so excited about sharing this fic with you! If we know each other already - this one is for you - a thank you of sorts for being so amazing and so supportive. Really, I couldn't have done it without you. And if we don't - hi there! I hope you'll like my take on this story we all love, and if you want to chat, you're welcome on  my tumblr anytime. 

**Two**. This story is rated M because it deals with unpleasant feelings and harsh memories. There are references to torture, violence, dubcon and noncon (in conformity with canon material), but nothing graphic and nothing explicit. Stay safe, though - and if you feel uncomfortable, or have more specific questions about the warnings, please contact me on  tumblr and we’ll figure it out, okay? 

**Three**. I wanted to write about time-travel, and this is why this story follows two different storylines. If you're okay with that, please read it in the order I wrote it. If you find it confusing af, remember readers have rights, which means - you can joyfully ignore my choices and jump through chapters instead. If you prefer to read stuff in a chronological order, try going through all the 'December' chapters first, until chapter 23 ( _December 25th - midnight_ ), and then coming back to chapter 2 and reading through all the other ones. Seriously, whatever works for you. 

**Four**. All of this - it got very personal. I never meant to write this story as a love letter to Tuscany and to Italy, but somehow it became exactly that. And I _do_ describe those places, but man - when you know someone deeply and intimately and could guess the shape of their cheekbones even in the dark, that's not what you describe. You describe the other things (how they smile, and how that smile tugs and tugs at something deep inside your heart). So, if you're curious and not familiar with Italy and want to see what I'm seeing, I embedded pictures to some locations in the text. Nothing as gorgeous as heartmurmur's watercolours, unfortunately - just a couple of postcards to help you fall in love with those place as well. Oh, and if you want to know more, follow the links and you’ll find photo credit, a wikipedia entry and (because why not) a random fact about Italy.

 **Five**. Trust me, okay?

(Oh, and as for my John Donne obsession - that goes back many, many years, and when I heard Cas refer to whatever is going on between him and Dean as a ‘more profound bond’ I immediately thought about this poem and my heart basically dented and shattered and there was no coming back and no escaping that story. Because, well, in my opinion, love _is_ a bond - it’s something you can’t help, and have no control over, and yet it is also a bond you accept and embrace, isn’t it, because loving another human being, fully and unreservedly - that’s how you truly see your own soul.) 

Happy reading! And deep breaths, okay? Good.


	2. December 21st

Dean is always careful, almost restrained – his hand reaching out to touch Cas’ face, or to tousle his hair, before stopping and moving back – but when they are outside, he’s downright distant.

Cas doesn’t understand it all that well, and he dislikes the fact, because he can see it on Dean’s soul – the unhappiness that comes with it. How he thinks, perhaps, that Cas will push him away if touched without warning; how he assumes, maybe, that Cas merely tolerates this new thing that has blossomed between them. That there is no way an angel could actually enjoy it.

“I love you, too,” Dean had blurted out, the morning after, and it had been – not resentful, exactly, but still – there had been a peculiar scent in the words, as if Dean were afraid, not only of acknowledging the feeling, but to feel these things in the first place.

Cas knows what they need is time, and he also knows time is something they don’t have. A cruel symmetry of sorts.

“So, tomorrow we fly out,” he says, watching on in fascination as Dean works on his broken EMF reader.

“Yeah, don’t remind me,” Dean groans, and then he curses at some minute piece of machinery that was unhappy with his prodding and almost snapped in half.

“Maybe tonight we can go out to eat.”

Dean blushes, very faintly, and then looks up, his right hand toying absently with the small screwdriver he’s holding.

“Yeah? You asking me out on a date there? ‘Cause that’s a bit gay, Cas.”

Dean often does this, and Cas always feels wrongfooted. It’s gay to compliment Dean’s cooking (“I know you can’t really taste it, but whatever. Thanks.”), and to try and kiss each one of Dean’s freckles (“There’s thousands of them, Cas, come on.”) and to appreciate Dean’s outfits (“I always dress like this, let’s just go.”); it’s definitely _very_ gay to bring Dean gifts (“We don’t need candles on the night stand, Cas, we’re not chicks.”). But, apparently, it’s not gay to kiss each other and to undress each other and to –

“Cas? I’m just joking, pal. Of course we can go out.”

Cas steps out of the memory – with some difficulty, because it’s a good one.

“I just thought – why not have one last American supper? I’m not sure Italian burgers will be up to your standards.”

And now there’s the familiar soft expression in Dean’s eyes – something that very rarely makes it all the way out of his mouth, but Cas doesn’t mind. He loves Dean just the way he is.

“Jesus, don’t say it like that – it’s not the last _anything_. We’ll be back in a week or so,” Dean says, coughing away his sudden affection and turning his attention back to the repurposed walkman.

Cas wants to move closer, lean over Dean, hug him back against himself; he wants to feel him relax, almost nuzzle against his own stomach as he does from time to time. And he could. It’s not like Dean is never physical with him. Dean is careful, that is all. And tonight, he’s a bit restless. He’s anticipating the long transatlantic flight, probably. And wondering, although he’s not voiced these concerns yet, what to tell Sam about them.

 _Them_.

It was always the two of them, and now it’s also the two of them, but everything has changed, and more and more Cas wishes he could feel the reason why and not only understand it. His love for Dean is deep and loud and boundless, but it’s a thing of light, not flesh. He never has goosebumps, or butterflies in his stomach (whatever that means). Sex with Dean is pleasurable ( _very_ pleasurable), but he never steps away from his own self, losing his words and his reason, the way Dean sometimes does. And when he looks at Dean –

“Are you ready?” Dean asks, coming back into the War Room.

Whatever he thinks about gay things, he’s showered and changed for dinner, and he’s now wearing that grey shirt Cas has once complimented him about. Even if he’s nervous about their upcoming trip, he’s as graceful in his movements as he always is: he checks his pockets for keys and money, his belt and sleeves for hidden knives, and then he steps closer to Cas, who’s still sitting down at the table, and bends down, only just, so he can nuzzle against his hair in something that’s not quite a kiss.

# 

“Come on, I’m hungry,” he says, straightening up and disappearing towards the garage; and Cas, of course, follows him.

When Cas opens the door and sits down in the Impala, Dean is already drumming his fingers on the wheel, his eyes fixed on the two necklaces hanging from the rearview mirror. One of them is a very important object – the only thing ever created with the power to sense God’s presence – while the other is a cheap imitation, the face of the idol a bit crooked, the leather of the strap just this side of fraying.

Cas knows very well none of that matters – Dean attaches no importance whatsoever to the fact one was handmade with $4.99 of materials and the other forged in blood and blessed by two archangels. The only reason he put them there is because they remind him of Sam – and, no matter how sunny and full of love the last three months have been, Dean misses his brother like he would a limb.

Cas remembers the moment Sam had turned and walked away – Toni had crossed into security already, and Cas had wished he could disappear as well, because, like her, and more than her, he understood the moment to be important – life–changing, perhaps. Both Sam and Dean were trying to keep it light, but they’d been nervous, their souls a swirl of bittersweet greens. Sam had kept adjusting his laptop bag more firmly on his shoulder; Dean had been sweating a bit under his leather jacket. And then, just as Cas had been about to give in to his instincts and move to one side, Dean had cracked a joke, a pun about planes and flying, and Sam had huffed and rolled his eyes and then, despite Dean’s slightly forbidding stance, he’d stepped forward and hugged his brother, bowing his face against Dean’s shoulder, his longish hair hiding his face. And Dean had hugged him back – Cas had seen his arms close fiercely, almost violently, around Sam’s middle, had winced in sympathy at the tug of pain both brothers were experiencing.

And then, just before disappearing through security, Sam had turned back and sort of winked at them.

“You guys be good,” he’d smiled. “Remember to leave room for Jesus.”

Dean had remained rooted to the spot, and even if he’d laughed, Cas had seen his hands closing into fists by his sides; his knuckles turn white.

“What did Sam mean?” he’d asked, as they both turned back and were swallowed by the crowds lulling aimlessly around the airport’s shops.

“Nothing. He’s an idiot, that’s all,” Dean had replied, his ears turning pink. “Hey, what about those ghouls? Think it’s worth to drive all the way down to Louisiana?”

Dean’s soul, though, had been disturbed for the whole afternoon; and, after Dean had gone to bed with an easy (too easy) smile and a muttered, _See you in the morning_ , Cas had given in to his curiosity and typed the sentence in the Google page, just like Sam had shown him.

 _The appropriate space between two people who are a couple. Usually anywhere between 4 to 12 inches_ , the first result said; and Cas had relaxed back into the chair.

That made a lot of sense. Dean often complained about Cas standing too close (not lately, though – not for a while, and the rules didn’t seem to apply to Dean himself, for some reason) – Cas would simply have to be more careful.

Dean would have none of it, though.

Looking at Dean now as he smiles and cranks up the volume and sings a song about mountains, Cas remembers how that was the thing that had changed between them after Sam had moved out – physical contact. It hadn’t happen overnight, but week after week, Dean’s touches had become more frequent; lingering, almost. Dean would put a hand on Cas’ shoulder when they stood side by side looking up at a haunted house. He would push Cas into diners and bars, the tip of his fingers ghosting over Cas’ lower back. He would lean over Cas when Cas was researching something on the laptop, his face very close to Cas’, his chest almost pressing down on Cas’ back.

It had been a strange process – both very obvious and barely there. Because Dean had been touching him more and more often, but mostly when he didn’t realize what he was doing, and that hadn’t changed after their first kiss, and not even after the first time they’d shared a bed.

Cas can see Dean is not completely at ease on the subject – he can see, as clearly as he sees the murmuring of the seasons through the leaves of the trees, that Dean wants _more_. That he wants them to be easy with each other. He also knows Dean has trained himself not to want that, though, because his father had had little patience for it, and his one–night stands (both the men and the women) had mostly wanted him for his looks and his shameless flirting. Cuddling and holding hands and whispering sweet nothings into someone’s hair is not something Dean is very good at.

Unfortunately, it’s also not something _Cas_ is very good at.

As he smiles at Dean beating his hands on the wheel to mimic a furious battery solo, he finds himself desperately wishing they had time to learn – together.

Or maybe he should have pushed Dean away, forced him to learn this, and everything else, with someone else.

The thought is very nearly unbearable, and yet –

“Hey, think Sam’s married yet?” Dean asks as he steers into the diner’s parking lot. “I bet he’s knocked her up by now. As long as he comes the hell _back_ ,” he frowns, turning the radio off, “I mean, that chick’s okay, but Europe – _really_?”

Before Cas can answer, Dean shakes his head and takes the keys out of the ignition.

“At least it’s Italy, and not England,” he mutters, opening the door. “Left–driving bastards.”

What makes things easier is that Dean _likes_ Toni. Of course, he’d almost killed her for shooting Sam, but after everything had been cleared up – after the real reason for her trip stateside had been uncovered, and the truth about Fitz – Dean had found he couldn’t even hold a grudge.

And, of course, Sam positively adored her.

“It’s gross, really,” Dean had said, amused, every time he and Cas were forcibly reminded of Sam and Toni’s love for each other (every time they kissed and every time they fell asleep all over each other in the back seat of the Impala and every time they disappeared into their motel room, Sam grinning a bit sheepishly as he bid them both goodnight).

No, on the whole Dean is happy tonight, Cas thinks, which means he’s less careful than he usually is. He leans heavily in Cas’ space as he talks, grabbing Cas’ arm when making a point, stealing Cas’ fries in an oblivious, shameless way; in the end, he even cleans powdered sugar and jelly from the corner of Cas’ mouth, because eating a donut is not, yet, Cas’ strongest skill.

Cas smiles at him then, sees the flash of a memory go through Dean like a knife blow – his own face, a bit flushed; the taste of his own skin. Yes, Dean is mostly careful, and he’s careful in asking him for anything, but once Cas had managed to make clear everything he has is Dean’s to take, Dean never held back. In fact, he –

And then the waitress comes to the table with their bill, and she’s very, very uncomfortable. She looks at them, and then back at the counter, where an older woman is putting money into the register in a methodical, angry way.

“Here’s your bill, guys,” she says, almost stammering, and Cas looks at Dean – sees him stare up at her, a frown on his face. “And my mom says – the owner, I mean – the owner would like to express –”

Her sentence trails away into nothingness. She’s horribly embarrassed, and very unhappy, and Cas’ still unable to figure out what’s wrong.

“You’re not welcome here,” she says in the end, almost whispering, and when she finally meets Dean’s eyes, her eyes are red with unshed tears. “I’m sorry, but my mom says you’re not welcome here and should take your business elsewhere.”

Dean visibly swallows, the way he does when he’s extremely angry. His hand twitches as if moving for a weapon – he could take his pick, Cas knows – Dean always carries at least one gun and three hidden knives – before stilling on the table.

“Is that so,” he says, dryly, and then he looks around.

It’s Friday night, and the place is packed almost full. Cas follows Dean’s gaze, sees a pattern emerging – oblivious children chattering among themselves and stealing each other’s phones and tablets; people looking down at their laps, frowning; people staring directly at them, an open, challenging something in their mouths and eyes; and one woman at the very back, looking, like the waitress, incredibly embarrassed and unhappy about whatever it is that’s happening.

“Is something wrong?” Cas says, softly, and Dean sort of deflates; he looks back at Cas, almost smiles.

“No, Cas. Nothing’s wrong. Here’s the twenty we owe you,” he says, flipping his wallet open, his eyes back on the young waitress, “and here’s your tip, sugar. Maybe take a trip, okay? Get out of this place for a bit. Change of scenery, an’ all.”

To Cas’ surprise, Dean leaves two hundred dollars on top of the twenty dollar bill, in a quick, hidden gesture, making sure the woman behind the counter can’t see him; and then he stands up, beckons to Cas, and they make their way to the exit.

His soul has turned an ugly, stormy grey, but one doesn’t need to see it to guess Dean is spoiling for a fight. Anyone could tell that just by looking at the way he walks. Dean can be scary when he’s in this mood – defiant and hyperaware of everything going on around him and ready to take on everyone – and that’s most likely why people wait for them both to actually get out of the diner before starting to clap – Cas looks back, utterly confused, but Dean doesn’t stop.

“What was that?” he asks, opening the passenger door and peering in; and Dean looks up at him, pain and shame and guilt almost splitting his face in two for a second – and then, just like it happened in the diner, his gaze softens, as if Cas’ complete lack of understanding were a good thing.

“Just idiots,” he says. “Come on, if we leave now we can make it back by midnight.”

Once home, Cas tries Googling ‘people clapping in diners’, but nothing comes up.

He’s still sitting in front of the computer, jumping between Florence restaurants and Kansas pet shelters (Dean’s still adamantly against getting a cat, but Cas healed his allergies weeks ago, just in case), when Dean comes back into the War Room.

He’s nervous but determined, and he’s fiddling with a small object that glimmers and glistens between his fingers.

A ring.


	3. ɿɘƚnuH ƚƨoʜᎮ ɒ ʇo ʜƚɒɘᗡ

“You can’t run, Dean,” the demon said, slow and intimate. “So stop trying.”

“I’m not running, am I?”

Dean gripped the knife more firmly, his thumb sliding for a second against the red, viscous gore dripping down from the blade.

“You can’t lie to me.”

“I ain’t lying.”

Dean felt Alastair moving closer; he forced himself to stay perfectly still, his eyes on the corpse in front of him. It still looked like a person, but only just.

 _My work_ , Dean thought, his eyes moving over the deep gashes, the shockingly white glimpses of bone jutting out from the torn flesh. _My fault_.

And then came the touch of Alastair’s hands. His skin was always pleasantly warm, which made things even worse. At his weakest, Dean couldn’t help but turn his face into Alastair’s palm, almost mewling with need – Hell was so, so _cold_.

“I know you are,” Alastair said, his fingers closing down on Dean’s hips, stroking gently. “But I know you don’t mean to. You love me too much for that.”

Dean said nothing.

Alastair breathed against his neck, then moved closer, licked the skin, as if tasting it.

“But you’re not getting out, boy. Not now, not ever.”

There was a scream somewhere in the distance, and then a door slamming.

“I will _never_ let you go. I love you, and you love me, Dean.”

Somehow, that was the worst thing. The way Alastair said his name, as if – as if he had any _right_ to it. Dean knew all about it – demons – that had always been Dad’s number one subject of conversation – he knew how _sacred_ names were for those things, because their own names – they were flesh and blood, somehow, and if you knew them, then you could –

And Dean had thought about that, obsessively. He’d spent many nights – years, probably – staring up at the darkness, wondering how to get Alastair’s true name from him. He’d tried to be nice, and then he’d gone right back at being an asshole because Alastair seemed to like that best – pushing and pushing against Dean until Dean broke – and –

“Dean?”

Dean breathed in, tried to steady himself. The room around him was getting paler and paler, like a thing once seen in a dream.

“Dean? Hey, you asleep there?”

Dean woke up with a start.

“No,” he said, automatically; then, clearing his throat, he reached out and grabbed the program Charlie had pushed across the small table.

It took him a full minute to remember what was happening and what they were doing, the demon’s voice lingering against his skin like cold fog. Finally, Dean blinked the thing away, focused on the leaflet in his hand. It was a tacky as hell, all deep purple and white letters, but Charlie had been right: the choice of movies was _outstanding_.

“You’re sure this shit has subtitles?” he asked, his voice still a bit hoarse.

“Most of them are shown in English,” she said, completely unconcerned. “Hey, do you think I should cut my hair?”

Dean turned the leaflet over.

“The fuck I care what you do with your hair,” he said, but he smiled all the same.

“Oh, come on – a bob, like the one from the girl we met last night.”

Problem was, Dean thought, abandoning the paper and picking up an even more alarming little thing advertising a local concert with – if he was understanding this right – free beer, the only decent movie they had for tonight was the one at six, some horror gig, and who wanted to go to the movies that early?

“I don’t remember her,” he said, absently, and could almost hear Charlie’s grin.

“Sure you do. You looked at her for one hour straight.”

“I was looking at her boyfriend. Did you see the _ass_ on him?”

“Do you even _know_ me?”

Dean pushed the paper back and looked up at her. “Fine. I was looking at them both. You win. And I think you look good with long hair – just do something with it, you know?”

Charlie pouted. “You mean braids and things?”

Dean waved a hand lazily, then picked up his water bottle. “Yeah, some _Lord of the Rings_ bullshit.”

“I’m not good at that.”

“Says the girl who hacked into the _Pentagon_ last year.”

Charlie threw him a scrunched up napkin – all that was left of her ice cream cone, and Dean caught it in mid–air. “It was _not_ the Pentagon. And those are _completely_ different skills.”

“Yeah, so it was the NSA. So what? And you throw like a girl,” Dean said, and he threw the napkin back at her.

It hit her right on the nose.

“Ouch!”

“It’s a _paper_ –”

“Oh my God oh my God oh my _God_ ,” Charlie squealed, and Dean worried, for half a second, that she was having some weird–ass heart attack.

Or a Tourette's episode, more likely.

“What?” he asked, loudly, and then he saw she was looking at something over his shoulder, started to turn around.

“Don’t look,” Charlie hissed, and Dean froze.

“What the _hell_?”

“The cutest guy just walked in. And he’s staring right at you. Well, the back of your head, but still.”

Dean shook his head, grinning. “Makes sense. The back of my head is quality stuff.”

“Shut up. Oh my God, he’s getting closer. He’s _dreamy_ ,” Charlie added, in a stage whisper, and this time Dean did turn around.

The common room was not very welcoming on the best of days, but on days like today, a stifling hot summer afternoon, it looked downright _dingy_. Dean had been in awe of of the ancient building when he’d first arrived – and then he’d discovered it was ancient on the inside, as well, and his enthusiasm had dimmed a bit. Still, it sure gave them all stuff to talk about – there had been long–ass discussions with the other exchange students as Dean explained how he could fix the place right up – show it some love, and all. It certainly deserved it. Because, like, look at this room – at the paint peeling off the walls, at the faint fractures snaking on the ceiling, courtesy of the constant humidity (the river sure was beautiful, and even more so at night, but it also hurt the buildings like nothing else). And it wasn’t like they’d done the place any favors with the furniture: a ping pong table, two rickety desks, the couches Charlie and Dean were currently occupying – all that stuff had probably been salvaged from a dumpster. And the black and white photographs, vaguely artsy, didn’t add much.

Now, Dean was a romantic, in his own way. A breakfast in bed kinda guy. But he wasn’t good with his words, and he certainly didn’t believe in that eye–fluttering, heart–stopping, love–at–first–sight bullshit. But when he turned around and saw the guy coming towards them, he finally understood why girls would yap and yap about some guy lighting up a room.

Because this guy _did_ that, and quite literally.

There was, like, a halo of pure white light behind him, falling all over him, softening his features, and then exploding all over the stupid, ordinary room.

 _It must be the open door behind him_ , Dean thought, vaguely.

Yeah, that was definitely it: the summer light, creeping up on them, turning the guy’s face a bit dark, giving him the appearance of wings.

But still, Charlie was right.

This guy was something else.

And he didn’t give a _fuck_ , either. He walked straight towards him, like they had an appointment or some shit, and as he came closer, and the light behind him slowly faded, Dean could see he looked – _weird_.

It was like he was both relieved and disappointed. Also sad. And happy. A mess of things.

“Hello, Dean,” he said, when he was so close he could just bend down and fucking _kiss_ Dean, and something in his voice – it was like Dean had heard it before.

Like he knew who this guy was; like there was something in his chest tugging at his heart, telling him, friend and kin.

“How do you know my name?” he said, coughing a bit on the words, because his throat was suddenly very dry, and, seriously, he could have kicked himself – nice come–on, man. Real well done.

“Hey, have you just arrived? Do you want to sit with us?” asked Charlie from behind him, and thank _God_.

The guy stared at Dean for another full minute before looking up and smiling at her.

“I – okay. It’s good to see you both.”

That was a weird–ass answer, but, then again, this was one weird–ass guy. And Dean both wanted and didn’t want him to come closer. It was actually scary, how intense this feeling of – recognition – was. He tried to somehow signal this to Charlie, but either his wordless communication skills were rusty or she was a devious bitch, because she smiled at him and adjusted her legs more firmly against the cushions of the couch, so that the only place available was on the other one – the one Dean was sitting on.

And the guy was apparently as skittish as Dean, because he threw an uncomfortable, almost pained look around the room, as if pondering whether it was worth it to draw up a chair, before awkwardly walking around the couch and sitting down next to Dean.

Dean’s eyes studied the guy’s profile, sharp as glass, then moved down, following the graceful line of his neck, the understated muscles under – fucking _Hell_ – a black Led Zeppelin t–shirt. It was only then that he noticed a small white sticker glued to the guy’s chest.

 _Castiel_ , it said, in clear, black letters.

“Who are you?” he blurted out, trying to shake that sudden pull between them, because it wasn’t normal and he’d never felt this way about anyone and seriously, what the _hell_?

“Castiel,” the man said, after a slight pause, and Dean shook his head.

“Yeah, I figured that much. I mean, what are you?” he clarified, pointing at the sticker, and he hadn’t meant it to sound like that – like he was asking the real question forcing its way out of his chest –

_Why do you make me feel like that? And do you feel the same way?_

– no, he’d wanted to ask a normal thing, and God, he was so fucked he couldn’t even –

And the guy seemed perfectly aware of that. There was a sort of distance in how he looked at Dean, like he knew what he was doing to Dean and he was trying not to.

 _Well, too fucking late for that_ , Dean thought, and he hoped Charlie had a goddamn conversation manual hidden in her stupid _Doctor Who_ backpack, because he was over and done for.


	4. December 23rd, 3 pm

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”

Dean isn’t looking at him, but there it is, right along his jaw and all the way up to his eyebrows: something that implies he’s very angry indeed (lately, that he’s very angry at Cas, and hating it).

“I didn’t talk you into anything,” Cas says, lowering his eyes to the magazine again.

“It’s a _train_ , man. A stupid, _motherfucking_ –”

The little girl in the seat facing them eyes Dean with renewed interest. Cas can feel her gaze without even looking at her, the same way he feels Dean burning up with guilt and exasperation (at himself; at the world).

“I’m just sayin’, if we’d rented a car we’d be there already.”

That’s a lie, and they both know it. Europe is different. Trains are often more reliable than roads, and this train right here is a marvel. Two hours from Milan to Florence – no way even Dean could have beaten that.

Cas turns a page and looks up. He’s about to mention that this is not his fault – that he had indulged Dean and walked with him to the car rental place, that he’d had to pry Dean away from the salesman’s desk because, of course, all that was available? Fiat this and Volvo that – modern, sleek things which ‘any idiot can drive’, as Dean had mumbled to himself as Cas was buying the train tickets.

But, of course, Dean had still been jittery because of the long flight, and Cas – it’s not in his nature to exploit Dean’s weaknesses. No matter how unreasonable or insufferable Dean can be.

“We would have wasted a lot of money for nothing,” he says, instead. “We won’t need a car once we’re there.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not like money’s an issue, is it? Not after –”

Cas looks up, sharply. Dean may be a bit out of it and more than a bit tipsy, but it’s still not a good idea to talk about their illegal activities on a busy train.

“– Sam married into royalty,” Dean says, switching the sentence around.

He looks at Cas for a second, as if daring him to say something, and then he turns towards the window, and all Cas can see is the blank, transparent expression on his face reflected in the window. There are soft green hills all around him, but there’s nothing soft left inside him.

“They’re not married.”

He turns another page. He’s bought the magazine because of the pictures on the cover, and he’s enjoying it immensely; it’s about kids and horses, and there are tons of cute drawings – the thing almost smells of hope and dreams – but he’s also trying to be discreet about it, because he’s been around people long enough to know that a grown man reading a children’s magazine is something that could attract trouble.

“Give them two weeks.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing. If they love each other, why shouldn’t they get married?”

Cas wants to take the sentence back as soon as it’s out of his mouth, but, of course, it’s already too late. Dean doesn’t look at him, but, again, Cas can hear the screeching noise of his soul as it blackens and burns with humiliation and anger.

“Dean, I didn’t mean –”

“Shut up.”

“I just –”

“You just _what_ , huh?”

Cas opens his mouth, then closes it. He knows Dean doesn’t understand, and he knows that it’s his, Cas’, fault.

As it always is.

“Do you want to have lunch?” he asks instead, and Dean scoffs.

“Thought you were busy with your kiddy book.”

“I’m almost finished.”

Dean shifts in his seat, looks down at the magazine in Cas’ lap.

“You speak every language on the planet, and you waste your time reading about ponies,” he says, with as much disgust he can muster, and Cas can hear the real sentence just behind the words, like one would hear rain splatter through a closed window.

_You could be anywhere in the world, you could do anything – and yet you stay with me._

Once upon a time, Dean would have said the words with awe – with gratitude, even.

Now, however –

“I enjoy it,” Cas says, simply, hoping to convey that other thing inside his chest.

( _I love you. I still love you. I will_ always _love you._

_I’m sorry._ )

Dean’s phone pings before either of them can say anything else.

“Sam,” Dean grunts, looking at the screen, and then his eyes go completely empty.

He puts the phone down on the little table in front of him – he does it hard enough he probably broke off a piece – and then he stands up, very nearly splitting his head open on the overhead suitcase holder.

“I need a drink,” he says, and Cas starts to stand up as well. Dean scowls. “I can manage on my own. I’m only human, and I sure as hell don’t know the damn language, but I think I can get myself a damn _beer_.”

“I was only – here,” Cas says, handing over his own wallet, because he’s the one who changed some money at the airport, while Dean was busy throwing his guts up. “In case they don’t take cards.”

Dean looks like he wants to argue the point, then he scoffs again, takes Cas’ wallet, fishes inside it until he’s found a note which looks like it’s worth something (a pale orange fifty, that is), throws the wallet back on the table and disappears down the corridor.

Cas watches him go, and he can’t help noticing, with a swell of pride, Dean’s easy loping. They just left Bologna, and the train is sort of speeding up – people are still standing up, moving around, and they bump into each other, gasp and curse and shake their heads, unsettled by the slight shaking of the train, but Dean – despite the anxiety and stomach problems he endured for twelve hours – despite his current anger and pain – well, look at him walk – he’s still every inch the warrior Cas first met in Hell.

The thought makes Cas clench his hands on the flimsy paper of his magazine, because –

“Is he your friend?” asks the little girl from across the aisle.

Cas smiles at her, then looks at her mother, seeking permission. The woman is busy shouting into her phone, however, and doesn’t even notice the exchange.

“Yes,” he says. “A very good friend.”

It’s been centuries, but Italian still comes easy on his lips. It’s gotten less round and less twisted, of course, as if determined to erase ten centuries of Middle Age nonsense and go back to the purity of Latin, but Cas doesn’t mind it.

The little girl thinks it over, then she bends into the corridor, trying to see Dean (who’s long disappeared towards the bar).

“Why was he angry?” she asks, and Cas sighs.

When he sees this girl, he sees a happy, simple life. He sees a big apartment with severe dark wood furniture, and he sees a smaller house by the sea. He sees a grandmother who spends six hours a week on the train to be with her granddaughter, and he sees the girl’s simple joys – he knows, can see it in her eyes, that she keeps a wooden box under her bed – a collection of small rocks and colored beads and silly, shiny objects. He knows there’s a note in there, a thing written in careful pencil that reads, _You and Me Together Forever_. He knows the face of the boy who gave it to her – a classmate with dark curls and a quick, easy smile – and he can almost taste, if he concentrates, the raspberry–colored affection the little girl feels for him.

He wishes his love for Dean could be explained in such simple terms.

He wishes he could tell anyone about what’s going on between them, but, of course, Dean made him promise not to.

Not that he would tell an eight–year–old girl, but he’d hoped to talk to Sam, and instead –

“He’s not angry,” he says. “He’s in pain.”

The girl thinks it over.

“Why?”

Cas smiles again – he smiles so he can wash away the memory of that night, of the way Dean had looked at him, as if all his nightmares had come true at once; the echo of Dean’s voice, just this side of shaking (“Just tell me why. I deserve that much.”).

“He was ill in the plane,” he says, and, of course, the girl is about to ask a thousand other questions – where do they come from, and what kind of plane they were in, and what color did the stewardesses wear, and did they get that funny butter thing they always give you for lunch, with a bun of stale bread and the plastic knife and – when her mother calls her, apologizes to Cas, pushes her phone into her daughter’s hands and encourages the child to make small talk with some relative.

(An aunt, currently in Rome, sitting in a stylish café, drinking – Cas closes his eyes, shuts her out. He used to be much better at filtering the world around him, but he used to do that by focusing on Dean’s soul instead – by anchoring himself to its bright presence – and now Dean is hurting, Cas can’t – won’t –)

He looks out of the window. They will be in Florence in thirty minutes, and the [landscape](http://awed-frog.tumblr.com/post/151977839047/the-way-out-is-a-dcbb-2016-fic-it-was-supposed-to) beyond the glass is getting more and more familiar.

 

# 

 

Then again, every inch of this Earth is familiar to Cas. He used to watch over kings, and there are kings everywhere.

Of course, he’d never taken a vessel before meeting Dean, so he’s never seen things from this perspective – as an average human, zooming through the Tuscan countryside at two hundred miles an hour, an unopened can of lemonade fluttering slightly on the little table in front of him. In the past, he’d always been _other_ – the wind through the flowers, the music of spring. His wings had blotted out the sun and then uncovered it again as he battled with demons as big as weather–beaten cathedrals.

With a sigh, he picks up Dean’s phone, checks for damages.

Before he can help himself, he clicks it on, scrolls through the messages.

The last one is from Sam. It asks at what time they’re coming in – and next, there is some sort of double–entendre about how many rooms will be needed.

“Oh, Dean,” Cas says, staring at the words.

Hating himself, he clicks the phone off again, then toys with the idea of writing to Sam – of warning him, somehow, about the mess they’re in, and how it’s not a good idea to make jokes.

But Dean wouldn’t want that.

And Sam’s smart, in any case. He’ll take one look at them both and never mention the subject again.

Which is fine.

Whatever is between them can’t get fixed.

There’s no time left for that.

Cas relaxes back into his seat and pretends to read his magazine while he listens for Dean’s soul – for the damaged, discordant music it makes as Dean starts on his second beer and fights against the overwhelming impulse to just come back to Cas.


	5. bnɒlɘbiT

“Are you the new Student Exchange Coordinator?”

Yep, there it was: a normal question. Precisely what Dean had meant to ask. Great stuff, and yay for Charlie’s unerring conversational skills.

“I – something like that,” Castiel said.

He was still looking down at the sticker on his chest, as though wondering how it ever got there.

Dean didn’t want to find it endearing, but, well. Life’s not about getting what you want.

“Have you ever been to Italy before? You _must_ have,” Charlie went on, and then she added something else about the trip she and Dean had been planning (a European tour they had sort of agreed upon back in March and had kept pushing back).

Not that Dean didn’t want to go, but the central argument was that he wanted to drive and Charlie had a sort of train fetish.

“What about England?” she’d asked him. “You’re not planning to make me wait around on the French coast for two days for the right tide to come in, are you?”

“Uh, how else would we get there?”

“By plane?” she’d said, finally snapping her textbook shut and looking up at him.

“Yeah, that’s _not_ happening.”

“Why? You’re not scared of flying? Not the great Dean Campbell?”

“Why do you want to go there, anyway? It’s like, the only fucking island in the whole –”

“Hello? Conan Doyle fan over here. If you think I’m going back to America without –”

“How are you feeling, then?” Castiel suddenly asked, seizing his chance when Charlie finally stopped to breathe. “Are you happy?”

It was a bit of a weird question – or maybe not. Maybe it was his job to ask this stuff. Still, it seemed way too intimate. He’d known the guy for two minutes, after all.

“Me? I’m peachy, man. What about you?”

Something in Castiel’s eyes shifted, as if he could see right through Dean’s superficial cheer and thought very poorly of it. But it wasn’t like Dean was lying, or anything. So he’s got nightmares from time to time. Who hasn’t?

“I’m better now. Thank you, Dean,” he said.

They stared at each other – they were way too close, because the couch wasn’t that big, and Dean had to work real hard not to just lean forward and kiss the guy. Which, like, he would have totally done if circumstances had been different – this was the great thing about swinging both ways: when you were in the mood for uncomplicated stuff, you just went with guys – all you needed was a smile and a shoulder touch and then you could hook your finger in a belt buckle and just pull – but with Castiel, that seemed wrong.

And yet –

“I’m happy too,” Charlie said, a bit too loud. “Just in case anyone’s interested.”

Dean turned and frowned at her, half in apology and half in _Dude, really?_ and she grinned at him.

“Well, maybe not at the moment,” Charlie added, and then she looked downright mischievous. “It’s too hot in here. And boring. Why don’t we go to the beach?”

_Uh._

Dean could have listed the reasons why not, but everything seemed to happen very, very quickly – just like it happens in dreams, one second they were sitting together in that dingy room, and the next they were walking down narrower and narrower streets, Dean and Charlie keeping to the shadow like normal humans, and Castiel just walking in the middle of the quiet, pedestrian roads, seemingly unaffected by the heat.

Charlie was still chatting with him, and Castiel was listening, but he seemed to have no interest in moving the conversation forward. He was stealing glances at Dean instead, and whenever Dean looked back, he pretended like nothing was wrong; he turned his head, surveyed the street signs – the houses, the shops – like he was some goddamn city manager.

“Florence is wonderful, isn’t it?” Charlie said, as they turned a corner and the street ended abruptly – all there was? A beach of pebbles and the bright blue sea all the way to the horizon.

“Yes,” Castiel said, but he frowned, like he was doing math inside his head and something wasn’t quite right; and then he added, and it must have been a question, but somehow it didn’t sound like one, “This is good. You like the sea.”

Dean didn’t ignore him, exactly, but he didn’t answer, either. Of _course_ he loved the sea, and how did Castiel know this? They’d only just met.

And yet, it wasn’t creepy. It was – _normal_ , or some shit. Like they’d known each other for years, and this was their thirtieth trip together.

“You know how to swim?” he asked instead, and then he brought his hand up to shield his eyes and checked for a free spot.

The beach wasn’t that big – no more than sixty feet, really – but they were lucky, and there was still a spot left untaken, right by the sea.

They all kept their shoes on as they moved closer to the water, but once they were there, Charlie showed off some real organizational skills: her backpack wasn’t that roomy, but it apparently fit both their towels, two bottles of water, sunscreen, and even a straw hat, which was patently too big to be in there in the first place.

“I’m going to go change,” she said, making her way back towards a small _gelateria_ at the edge of the beach, and Dean, after a moment of hesitation, began to strip.

He was wearing his trunks under his trousers because that was the only way to live in Italy, but he was suddenly shy about it all – taking his clothes off in front of this gorgeous guy – taking his clothes off at all. His hands grabbed the edge of his t–shirt, then pulled it down again.

“What about you?” he asked Castiel. “You’re not swimming?”

“I don’t have a swimsuit,” Castiel said, almost gently.

“So? Just swim in your boxers. No one’s going to mind.”

He motioned, vaguely, to the other people on the beach, and he knew he was right – none of them had even looked up when they’d arrived. They were just – people. Minding their own business, getting on with their lives.

Castiel looked faintly embarrassed for a second.

“I’m afraid I forgot to put on underwear.”

Dean just stared at him.

“I was – in a hurry. Distracted,” Cas added, totally misunderstanding the look on Dean’s face.

Dean opened his mouth, closed it again.

“That’s – that’s fine,” he said, as though this new information wasn’t affecting him at all.

 _He’s wearing button fly jeans, can you see that?_ asked the stupid part of his brain, the one connected directly to his dick. _Can you imagine what it’d be like to undo these buttons? Because_ I _can._

“Why haven’t you changed?” asked Charlie from behind him, and Dean jumped about a foot in the air.

“Don’t _do_ that,” he grumbled, and then he whistled. “Look at that. You look _nice_ , sis.”

“You’ve seen me in a swimsuit a thousand times.”

“So what? You look nice every time.”

And the thing was, she _did_ look nice, even though she was wearing a ridiculous thing with a pokeball on each breast. When she turned around and bent down to arrange her clothes on the pebbles, Dean had a glimpse of a blindingly yellow Pikachu right on her butt.

# 

“And we’re not swimming,” he added. “So.”

“What? Why not?” she asked, straightening up.

“Castiel here forgot his swimsuit, and I’m against recreational half–nudity,” he said, trying, and failing, to keep a straight face.

She swatted his arm. “You’re an idiot.”

As they bickered, Castiel sat down on the pebbles. He still looked, Dean thought, mildly confused, as if this were not what he was expecting at all. Which would make sense: their latest Coordinator had been a fat man named Tom who didn’t speak a word of Italian and had left after one month. There was an office somewhere in California which clearly _sucked_ at this.

“So what?” Charlie asked, looking first at Dean, then at Cas. “You want to go? Find someplace else?”

Cas looked up at Dean, and Dean smiled.

“Nah. This is nice. Let’s stay for a while,” he said, and Cas smiled back.

“Of course,” he said, and again, something tugged very deeply at Dean’s chest at the words.


	6. December 24th, 4 pm

“So, how was the journey?” Sam asks, and Cas finds he can’t look away.

Sam looks – _healthy_. He’s dressed in something much different from what he normally wears: a dark coat and dark jeans and a woolen hat. His cheeks are red from the cold and his soul is so bright Cas is surprised no one else can see it.

He also had sex this morning.

Twice.

Cas blushes, looks away. It’s not like he seeks out this information, and he understands by now what a breach of trust it is to see these things –

(Though it’s still not clear, exactly, why humans are so secretive about sex with someone they love and so boastful about strippers and prostitutes and people they’re never going to see again.)

– which is why he tries to lose himself in the happy noise of the crowd around them.

“Yeah, let’s not go there,” Dean says, shifting his duffel to his other shoulder.

He desperately wants to hug Sam – Cas can hear that much, almost taste the flow of it – a direct red line going from Dean’s heart to Sam’s chest – but he stays right where he is instead, keeping a careful distance from both Sam and Cas.

“That bad?”

“The car rental place tried to suggest a Fiat Multipla” Cas says, to try and break the awkward silence, and Sam laughs.

“Hope no one got hurt,” he says, good–naturedly; and then he claps Cas on the shoulder. “Anyway, good to see you both.”

“In their defense, it’s a very practical car. Very safe.”

“Cas, shut up. You’re gonna make me throw up again.”

“You threw up?”

“We were on a goddamn plane for twelve hours, what do you think?”

Sam opens his mouth, then something shifts on his face as he finally realizes how weirded out and plain wrong Dean looks. He ends up smiling instead, but it’s a tense smile. He then looks around, a bit foolishly, for Cas’ luggage, but, of course, Cas is not carrying anything. It’s not like he needs a change of clothes, or even a toothbrush.

(“You’re like those things – those ducks,” Dean had said once, sighing sleepily against Cas’ naked back. “You’re self–cleaning. Very low maintenance.”

“Just because I don’t need food, that doesn’t make me low maintenance,” Cas had pointed out, reasonably, and Dean had somehow sensed Cas had been about to mention all those other things – Cas rebelling and then going mad with determination and self–righteousness and trying to take over the world – Cas destroying Sam’s sanity, Cas staring at the wall with blank eyes for weeks and weeks – and he’d hugged it out of him.

“ _I_ ’m the human here. This is _my_ planet, and I know what’s up. If I say you’re a duck, you’re a goddamn _duck_.”

Most nights, Cas can still feel Dean mouthing the words against his skin.)

“Is Toni’s house very far?” he asks, a bit hurriedly, and Sam shakes his head.

“Nah. If you guys are fine with walking, we can make it there in twenty minutes or so. She lives smack in the middle of Piazza della Signoria,” he announces proudly, his atrocious pronunciation almost mangling the words beyond recognition.

“How can a house be in the middle of a square?” Cas asks, and Dean snorts.

“See what I have to put up with?” he says, shaking his head. “When are you coming back?”

Sam’s soul changes from light blue to a deep, embarrassed purple.

“How is Toni?” Cas asks.

Dean glances at him resentfully, but Cas doesn’t look his way.

“Good,” Sam says, accepting the lifeline.

He almost bumps into Cas as they wait for the flow of cars to stop, and Cas reaches out to steady him – it’s unnecessary, of course. Sam may have switched careers, and be more about libraries than shoot–outs these days, but he’s still fighting fit; it’s not likely he’ll just trip and stumble because of the unpredictable nature of Italian traffic.

“She and Fitz are in Venice at the moment,” he says, as they move forward, away from the chaos of the station into the even more chaotic streets of the old city. “A last minute emergency – something to do with psychomancy?”

“What?”

“Divination,” Sam adds, for his brother’s benefit, choosing speed over accuracy. “But they’ll be back tomorrow, of course. Early in the morning, probably.”

“Thought the whole point was to spend Christmas together?”

“They’ll definitely make it back for lunch, don’t worry. And, anyway, since when is Christmas important to you?”

“‘S not. I’m just sayin’, you bitched for us to come over and –”

“Actually, I asked Sam if we could spend Christmas together.”

Dean stops talking abruptly.

“What?”

Sam looks from Dean to Cas.

 _You didn’t tell him?_ is what his eyes are saying, but by now, as Cas predicted, Sam can surely see there is something a bit off between them, so he just waits and holds his tongue until Dean is done having a private meltdown. He even walks a bit faster, so as to leave them behind and give them some privacy, but Dean is having none of it.

“Hey, Wun Wun. Slow down, okay? All I've had since I puked my guts up was a pastry and two beers.”

“Good choice,” Sam says, rolling his eyes, but he does slow down.

And when the sidewalk gets too narrow for the three of them to walk side by side, Cas is the one who moves behind them – he knows Dean doesn’t want to be with him right now, and, anyway, he always enjoyed seeing Dean and Sam together like this – they may have said very little, and they’re steadily growing into more and more different people, but there is still something between them which makes them one – there is this music they make when they’re together, because Sam was Lucifer’s vessel and Dean was Michael’s, and Cas’ brothers used to be closer than anyone else ever was in the history of Creation – used to love each other of a love so deep the oceans could not hope to contain it or rein it in. In fact, if he squints, Cas can still sort of see it: there is a trace of Lucifer on Sam’s soul, a vague hint of what used to be unbridled courage before turning into vanity and pride; and, as for Dean – Dean and Michael never became what they were supposed to be, and Cas will always be grateful for that; but, again, he can sort of see Michael in Dean – that sense of duty and responsibility, the determination to do right at any cost.

The archangels are all dead now, and there are days when Cas feels that grief so deeply within himself he thinks he will never be warm again.

He knows Dean doesn’t get it (“They were sick bastards, all of them – good riddance.”) and Cas doesn’t know how to explain, because Dean is not wrong, but at the same time – the archangels were there _first_. They were there in the very beginning. They helped to shape the world, and the breath of their creation still echoes all around these unsuspecting humans, like the light of a star that’s long since died.

“Hey? Earth to Castiel,” Sam says, and Cas shakes these thoughts out of his head like a dog would water from its fur.

“I apologize. Were you talking to me, Sam?”

They’ve stopped for traffic again. Sam is still looking at him strangely, and Dean’s doing his best to ignore them both – he’s looking up at the cornice of a [building](http://awed-frog.tumblr.com/post/151978395032/the-way-out-is-a-dcbb-2016-fic-it-was-supposed-to), and there are flashes of unwilling awe going on and off around him like a broken light bulb.

# 

“I was asking you if you’ve ever been to Florence before.”

_Are you okay?_

Somehow, Sam is asking two very different things, one with his words and one with his mind. Cas smiles up at him.

“A couple of times,” he says, making a small gesture, indicating they will, perhaps, talk about that other thing, but not now.

“Really? When?”

Cas starts walking again, and the three of them sink into a car free zone, crowds of giggling Japanese girls and befuddled German tourists opening in front of them like the Red Sea waters.

“The last time, in 1478. Balthazar insisted it was time for me to have a vacation.”

“...okay? And?”

Sam sounds almost giddy, as he always does when he is reminded of how old and other Cas actually is. The silence coming from Dean, however, is deafening.

“As it turns out, he and I had a very different concept of what a vacation was.”

They are briefly separated by a loud family of Sicilians (Cas hears a whiff of sun and citrus fruits and the marvel of a Greek temple before they pull away), and then Sam actually grabs Cas’ sleeve.

“Come on,” he says, his words almost visible in the cold air. “Don’t make me beg for it.”

“That’s not what you said last time,” Dean mutters, and Sam shoves him without turning around.

“Balthazar’s task, at the time, was watching over a young and promising artist who had a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. And he found it boring. Balthazar was always fond of – the _female_ form, and there were never many women around Leonardo. For obvious reasons.”

Sam almost walks into a streetlamp.

“Leonardo – da Vinci?” he asks, breathlessly.

“I – yes. Balthazar passed him over to me for a few months.”

“So, what, you banged him?”

“Dean!”

“What? We all know Cas here is ‘indifferent to sexual orientation’, right?”

Cas is not sure, exactly, as to what is going on here. Surely Dean is not jealous of a man long dead? And also – Dean knows perfectly well Cas lost his virginity with April.

(Sam doesn’t.)

“I never had a vessel then,” he replies, uncertainly. “I tried – guiding – him on another level.”

“Kinky.”

“Dean, shut _up_. Cas, what was he like?”

They turn a corner, and Cas hears Dean’s muttered curse, Sam’s superior smile.

The labyrinth of busy streets is now behind them, and here is Piazza della Signoria – a place so magnificent and full of history even someone who’s seen what Dean’s seen can’t help but love at first sight.

Cas loses himself into the past for a fraction of a second – he’s looking down, again, at Leonardo’s quick and careful sketch of the bodies hanging from the palace windows – Cas glances up from the paper, searches the boy’s soul, is reassured by the compassion he finds in there. The boy is an artist, and he can’t help himself: drawing is simply how he makes sense of the brutal events unfolding around him (how he stops himself from throwing up).

“He was kind,” he says, breathing himself back into the present; and next, he feels something light and friendly on his face, like those tears he cannot cry, and he looks up.

It’s started to snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case you’re curious, the historical event Cas mentioned is called [ Pazzi conspiracy ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pazzi_conspiracy) and happened in 1478. Lorenzo de’ Medici was ruling Florence at the time, and the Pazzi family tried to assassinate him - they crashed into a church on Easter day, during Mass, and attacked him in front of 10 000 people, but the Medici fought back - Lorenzo was wounded but survived, and his beloved younger brother, Giuliano, got killed in the mêlée. Lorenzo, mad with fury and grief, ordered the immediate arrest of all the members of the Pazzi house - he banished some of them and had the rest executed by hanging them from the windows of the Palazzo della Signoria, in Florence’s central square. And we know a young Leonardo turned up to see the slaughter, and sketched the bodies (you can see his drawing following the link above). Oh, and the guy who saved Lorenzo’s life was poet Angelo Poliziano - don’t you love how sometimes history is way better than fiction?


	7. ɿɘƚɒW ʞɿɒᗡ

The afternoon was hot and perfect, like a freshly baked pie, and Dean let it slide all over himself, his hands getting a bit numb from the pebbles pressing up into his palms, his knee touching Castiel's from time to time. It was always Dean moving, though – shifting, only just, as humans do, because sitting down for a long time is both relaxing and uncomfortable as fuck. Castiel seemed to exist on another planet altogether.

Not that Dean was looking at him, because he _totally_ wasn’t. He didn’t know, not a chance, that Castiel’s eyes were closed as he sat there, his back very straight, his hair becoming more and more dishevelled in the salty breeze. Dean hadn’t noticed how sharp Castiel’s profile was, hadn’t read the quick flickering of emotions that betrayed the one, simple fact: Castiel wasn’t, in fact, relaxed. Maybe he had trouble back home, or with that shitty office which had placed him here without even bothering to check up on him – not that Dean knew, exactly, that they hadn’t. It was just a gut feeling – the certainty that, whoever he was and wherever he came from, nobody had taken care of this man in a while. And Dean –

Dean shifted again, pointed the heel of his well–worn Converse into the grey pebbles.

Dean didn’t want to find this sad. Fuck, he didn’t even _know_ the man. There was a good chance he was a deranged asshole, because most people seem to be. Then again, there was a good chance Castiel was simply – lost.

Two children screamed in happy banter behind them. Dean glanced behind his shoulder, only just, and when he shook his head and turned around again, he found Castiel looking straight at him.

And man, was he a _weird_ dude. He was looking at Dean as if unaware Dean could even see him. Like you look at a painting in a fucking museum. Like he was looking for – meaning, or some shit. Taking apart the whole thing, not wondering what was on the canvas, but how the colors were made, and who’d made the frame.

“I have signed photographs,” Dean said, because that’s person he was: a big, big idiot; and then he smiled, as if the intense staring hadn’t fazed him at all.

“I apologize,” Castiel said softly, blinking in that way he had, as if he’d forgotten that was a thing humans did. “This must be very strange for you.”

“Nah. We come to the beach every day,” Dean replied, deliberately misunderstanding Castiel’s meaning; and then he added, a bit hurriedly, “Not during the semester, though. We’re very good students.”

Castiel finally smiled back.

“I’m sure you are. And that’s not what I meant, anyway.”

“Wasn’t it?”

Castiel’s smile turned a bit sad.

“Every time I come back into your life, it becomes harder to leave again,” he said, nonsensically, and Dean was about to ask what that even meant when Castiel put a hand on his knee, just like that, as if they’d touched every day for fucking _months_ , and moved his thumb lightly before breaking contact and sitting back, his elbows sinking down into the pebbles in what must have been the most uncomfortable position in the entire goddamn world.

Dean looked back at the place on the light denim Castiel had just touched. He could still feel the lingering warmth of Castiel’s palm, still trace the movement – the familiarity of it. Habit and comfort.

And he wanted to ask that question – who the hell Castiel was, exactly, and why did he walk into the college today and _Jesus_ – but he just couldn’t. He drew his knees up against his chest instead and stared out at the sea, his eyes and mind blinded by the blue border on the horizon – the place where sea turned to sky – the place that was really, really important and changed everything and yet wasn’t visible at all.

Dean didn’t know what this feeling was. He’d never experienced anything like this before. He was just – _drawn_ to Castiel. He had the (mistaken) feeling he knew things about the guy. Like the fact Castiel could stare at the walls for days on end, but would always, always smile at burgers and children's drawings. Or that Castiel preferred to sleep on his side, his back to his lover (to Dean), so he could be hugged and held and whispered to. Or the way Castiel would forget birthdays and anniversaries, as if the passing of time were a concept somehow beyond him, and yet find the most extravagant gifts when reminded he had to.

Daydreaming about people, imagining you know them: not a pastime Dean had ever indulged in. Hell, if he’d wanted to be some sort of shitty poet, he would have studied literature, not engineering. No, him – he wanted to see the cogs, and how the pieces fit together. He needed to touch things and prod them a bit and understand how they turn and make the whole thing work. So this sudden bullshit – feeling his entire body react to Castiel’s presence, that was – Dean didn’t know what to make of it.

Not that he was trying all that hard to make it into anything, exactly.

Something about Castiel felt – safe.

Dean shifted again, because every pebble God had ever created was literally pushing up against his butt, and then he glanced to his right. Charlie looked like she’d fallen asleep. Well, it was hard to tell, since she had the enormous straw hat all over her face, but her chest was rising and falling quietly, and she hadn’t said anything in what must have been at least an hour. Dean’s eyes moved over her skin, checking for early sunburn, before noticing traces of white sunscreen still blooming all over her arms and legs like bizarre finger–painting. Yeah, Charlie could take care of herself. No need for Dean to babysit her. Hell, she’d been the one babysitting him for months – waking him up for him eight am lessons, pushing the occasional vegetable on his plate, forcing her own tiny dictionary into his hands whenever they met some broad–shouldered Italian guy who winked at Dean. And also, well – Charlie had listened to him, for hours on end, when Dean was drunk and a bit blue and just needed to talk.

About what, he didn’t even remember.

His memory of those nights was a bit fuzzy – more feeling than words, somehow. This certainty he could tell Charlie anything, because this dorky girl who’d gotten into his room by mistake that morning in October had quickly turned into the little sister he never knew he wanted. Dean sort of remembered them sharing a bed – an uncomfortable thing, because Charlie was a slob and never made her bed and there were always covers and sheets and clothes everywhere – Dean would always collapse on top of the whole mess, someone’s taste still on his lips, his hand stamped with a weird tattoo you couldn’t actually see in the light of day, and Charlie would fall on top of him with an exasperated “This is actually _my_ room, you know that”; and then she would make them fit together, because they always fit in the end. And then Dean would talk, or fall asleep, slowly letting himself drown in her Christmasy scent.

Dean smiled, considered the possibility of a prank of some kind, decided against it. With a last look at Charlie’s peaceful form, he turned to the sea again (to Castiel) and crossed his legs. There was some kind of voice inside him, something about being a normal human and just fucking _enjoy_ all of this – the quiet lapping of the waves against the shore, and the slight, almost musical sound the pebbles made as they were pushed against each other. The warmth of the sun on his skin. The shouts of the children behind them, full of vowels and joy.

Dean had been there before. Hundred of times, probably. But today –

The simple truth was, the man at his side was too hard to ignore.

Not that Castiel was doing anything special. Dean glanced again, in what he hoped was a detached, casual way, and Castiel didn’t look back. He just lay there, seemingly just this side from giving up and getting the fuck down on his half of the towel, his gaze on the horizon. He had that look again, like he was doing math in his head, and after ten minutes or so, Dean found he just couldn’t take it any longer.

_Every time I come back into your life, it becomes harder to leave again._

“What are you thinking about?” His voice lowered a bit on the last word, because he’d just remembered Charlie was asleep and he didn’t want to wake her.

Castiel remained silent for another full minute.

“[This place](http://awed-frog.tumblr.com/post/151978850772/the-way-out-is-a-dcbb-2016-fic-it-was-supposed-to),” he said in the end, “is called Donkey’s Mouth.”

Dean frowned.

“Uh. Okay. Cool. Why?”

# 

“Because of the shape of the cove.” Sitting up, Castiel gestured behind him, and Dean followed the direction of his hand, but, of course, he couldn’t see anything from where they were – only an interrupted line of tiny shops and _gelaterie_ , the colorful houses, and the shadowy road they’d come from twisting its way back towards the city.

“That’s not what you were thinking about,” he said, looking back at Castiel again, and he didn’t mean to sound so accusing, but he was still unsettled by it all – he suddenly found he wanted to know what was going on, all of it – who this guy was, exactly, and why he was sitting here with them on a Thursday afternoon instead of being back in some university office and filing documents.

Something didn’t add up, and Dean –

And maybe Castiel sensed Dean’s uncertainty because he hesitated once more. His eyes moved from Dean’s eyes to his lips, and back again.

“Tell me about your family,” he said, and Dean shrugged.

“Not much to say. It’s mainly just my mom, and she’s back in Stanford. She teaches law – has written books, and everything. And my aunts and uncles and cousins – they all live nearby, but since I started college I haven’t seen them all that often.”

“I see. No brothers or sisters?”

“Nah. Just me and mom.”

Castiel picked up a pebble, let it fall back.

“What’s your mother’s name?” he asked, almost gently, and Dean grinned at him, his earlier doubts forgotten.

“What’s with the twenty questions thing?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit. Out with it.”

Castiel opened his mouth, closed it again.

“This is beautiful,” he said, in the end, and again, Dean felt like he was missing a good half of the conversation. “You like it.”

It wasn’t framed like a question, and Dean shook his head, pressed a hot pebble into his palm.

“Uh –”

“Dean, I don’t – let’s just –”

The sentence trailed away, and they slid into silence. Dean wasn’t certain about the kind of silence. Not uncomfortable, but – heavy, perhaps. He could see Castiel was unhappy, and he didn’t –

“Hey, you wanna get ice cream?”

Castiel smiled.

“Whatever you want,” he said, and so they stood up, made their way back to the street, Dean trying not to stare at Castiel’s butt – for some reason, the guy was wearing formal black shoes with his jeans (unlaced, no socks) but they definitely served him better than Dean’s battered Converse.

“These fucking pebbles,” Dean said, as they stepped back on the concrete, and, again, there was a slight pause from Castiel.

“Why not go to a sandy beach?” he asked, sensibly, and Dean grinned again.

“Hey, I don’t make the rules,” he shrugged. “This is the beach closest to our dorm.”

“I see,” Castiel replied, sounding like he didn’t see at all.

Dean rolled his eyes, and tried (and failed) not to find that cute as hell.

As they approached the small _gelateria_ , Dean peered through the glass.

“These things are good,” he said, “but you should try the apple pie my mom makes. You’ll see. Out of this world,” he added, and then he regretted saying anything, because he didn’t want to talk about his family, and he also sort of implied he wanted Castiel to come back with him to California, and what the _hell_ –

It was definitely the guy’s fucking eyes. Dean was always a sucker for blue eyes.

 _Goddammit_.

“What do you want?” he asked, hastily, to cover up his mistake, and Castiel shook his head.

“I don’t know. You pick.”

Dean peered through the glass again.

“I like both,” he complained. “The fruit stuff and the cream stuff. But they don’t go well together.”

“So get both, and we’ll swap half–way through.”

Dean glanced at Castiel, then away, but he did what Castiel said. He got two big cones, one with lemon and raspberry, and the other with stracciatella and amaretto.

They decided against going back all the way to their towels, and sat down in the shade instead, their backs against the colorful wall of a small house.

 _Via Boccadasse_ , the white marble plate over their heads said. Dean read the words – he’d never noticed the plate before – then focused on his ice cream, because, man, the thing was fucking _delicious_.

Also, eating was way better than talking. Not that he didn't have questions for Castiel, but they all seemed like creepy, stalkery things, or – even worse – really _gay_ stuff. Stuff Dean didn’t even use when doing _actual_ gay stuff, like chatting up a guy and sticking his tongue in the guy’s mouth. Stuff like, _Do you have someone to take care of you_ and _I want to do that for you_ and _Let’s just go out tonight – just the two of us, come on_. So he shut up. And he shut up so well and successfully, he actually forgot they’d kind of arranged an ice cream swap – he only remembered when he was chewing on the last piece of cone. He turned towards Castiel, a bit guiltily, and saw the guy hadn’t even touched his own ice cream.

“Dude, what the hell?” he said, and Castiel shrugged, offered him the thing.

“I don’t really have a sweet tooth,” he said, simply.

When Dean reached out to grab the cone, their fingers brushed, and this time, Dean saw it clearly, and understood it – the slight intake of breath, the momentary blush on Castiel’s face.

Okay, then.

“You’ve gotten ice cream all over your fingers,” he pointed out, and Castiel glanced around, as if looking for a napkin, and Dean – Dean got the cone out of the way with his left hand, and with his right, he lifted Castiel’s fingers all the way to his mouth.

There was a strange look in Castiel’s eyes as he watched the thing unfold. He _definitely_ wanted it, and it _definitely_ turned him on, but at the same time he was clenching his jaw, as if willing himself to say something. Or _not_ to say something.

Dean kept looking at Castiel’s eyes as he tasted his skin and licked his fingers clean – first the middle finger, then the index, his tongue tasting vanilla and chocolate and the more intense, slightly bitter flavor that was amaretto; and then he decided to really go for it, and he mouthed that sensitive place between index finger and thumb, his heart beating fast when he saw Cas was just this close to –

“Uh – thanks,” Castiel stammered, snatching his hand away, and Dean winked at him to hide his disappointment.

“Any time,” he said, and then he ate his second cone with a vengeance, wondering what the hell he’d done to deserve this – a motherfucking case of love at first sight, of all things, because that’s what it was – a feeling clamping down on his heart like a vise and mostly sucking all his words and charm right out of him.

Nah, he was truly and utterly _fucked_ on this one.

He needed a wingman, and badly, because something about this guy told him Castiel was never going to make the first step. Despite his badass rock t–shirt and his snug–fitting Levi’s, Castiel had looked like a lost duckling when Dean licked his fingers.

Which totally didn’t make Dean’s jeans about two sizes too small.

Not at _all_.

Dean crunched down on the cone, pushing a whole stack of treacherous images out of his mind – they were as sharp as memories, and their edges hurt like a mother – Castiel moving closer, unbuttoning his shirt; Castiel falling down on some bed, smiling up at him; Castiel saying, in his deep, sorrowful voice, _I love you_.

_What the –_

“Come on,” he said a bit roughly, getting up and cleaning his hands on his pants. “Let’s go find Charlie. If we’re not gonna swim, we might as well go back. ‘S almost time for dinner, anyway.”

“Is it?” Castiel asked, sounding downright alarmed.

“Yeah. What’s wrong? You got somewhere to be?”

“Not until – later,” Castiel said, and Dean simply turned around, and listened to Castiel’s careful steps behind him on the soft, white sand to where Charlie was still lying down on her towel, her hat now slipping from her face.

“Wake up, sleepy–head,” Dean half sang, and he tried to really focus on reality – his best friend, still as white as a ghost, and this place they’d been to so many times, for sunrises and sunsets and everything in between.

Those other memories wouldn’t leave, though.

_I love you, Dean. I think I’ve always loved you._

Dean clenched his hands into fists, nudged Charlie’s thigh with his shoe; Charlie batted at him in a vague, annoyed way.

“Uuurgh,” she said, and Dean snorted.

“Right. Come on. We’re leaving.”

Charlie blinked her way out from under the hat and glared up at Dean.

“Here’s an idea. Why don’t you go ahead and show Castiel around?” she said, pointedly, her voice a bit hoarse from sleep. “I’ll join you guys for dinner.”

Okay, this was so _not_ what Dean had in mind. He turned to look at Castiel, about to protest at how ridiculous the concept was – wasn’t like the man didn’t have anything better to do, after all – but Castiel looked back at him, in that steady, serious way he had.

“I’d love that,” he said, and that was it.

If Castiel wanted to do this – walk around and play tourist or whatever – just he and Dean, then, well, Dean couldn’t think of a reason to say no. Or a better way to end his day, to be honest.

He smiled at Castiel, and Castiel smiled back.


	8. December 24th, 5 pm

Cas is familiar with the Bevell’s family history, and Dean had looked long and hard into it as soon as Sam had announced these crazy plans of his – to actually go and stay with them for a while, and never mind – well.

So they both know the Bevells are an old aristocratic family; still, neither of them expected that the ‘flat’ Toni has in Florence is actually an entire palazzo, four stories high, complete with roof terrace, looking directly down on the Piazza and the Loggia degli Uffizi.

Cas touches the red stone as they wait for someone to open the door, and then takes his hand away, because, of course, it’s entirely too distracting. This place is old, and it has seen too much of everything – of joy and illness and death and blood. It’s almost overwhelming.

“I can’t believe you met Leonardo da Vinci. And what do you mean, he was _kind_?” Sam asks, just as the door opens and a man wearing an expensive uniform appears on the threshold.

“Mr Winchester,” he says, with a very slight bow to Sam. “Your brother and his companion, I presume?”

Cas feels Dean stiffens next to him. He knows the man didn’t mean it like that – there’s no need to read it like that at all, but Dean –

“We prepared two rooms for you on the second floor,” the man goes on, pretending not to notice Dean’s annoyance; and then he turns directly to Cas. “You are most welcome here, my Lord. Will you require any additional assistance?”

Sam looks up, bites on his lower lip as if he’s trying not to laugh.

(Dean rolls his eyes so hard they almost fall out of their sockets.)

Cas coughs, a bit uncomfortable.

“Thank you,” he says. “I will be satisfied with whatever my friends are having.”

Cas is not surprised Toni told this man what he truly is – in such families, trust between masters and servants is absolute; and he’s also not surprised by the level of formality. This, after all, is how an angel should be greeted. He remembers, fleetingly, the stuttering respect in Sam’s voice during that first meeting – and then, inevitably, Dean’s aggressive, in–your–face behavior.

“Very well. You are _most_ welcome,” the man says again, before hesitating, the mask of professionalism slipping for a second from his serious, lined face. “May I be so bold as to ask for a blessing?”

Dean turns away, looks back at the clusters of people still taking pictures in the Piazza despite the increasing cold and the declining light; Cas glances at his angry profile (he knows it’s not personal; Dean never likes to be reminded of what Cas actually is, that’s all) then steps forward, puts two fingers on the man’s forehead.

“ _Dominus tecum_ ,” he murmurs, focusing on the man’s aches and pains, fixing them one by one.

When he takes his hand away, the man looks ready to fall to his knees.

“ _Et cum spiritu tuo_ ,” he says, his voice trembling. A bit shakily, he moves to one side and invites them in.

Sam starts on a description of the house as soon as they set foot inside, presumably to try and cover the frosty silence coming from Dean. Cas looks around, only half listening. The place is magnificent, of course, but that doesn’t make him happy – if anything, he knows this understated wealth will make Dean even angrier.

Not that Cas had hoped for a full reconciliation, of course, not after –

“Me and Toni are on the third floor, and that’s where Fitz’s room is, as well, so you’ll have the second floor to yourselves,” Sam says, opening the ancient wooden doors wide and revealing a dining room filled with furniture that looks too delicate to be actually used.

“Do you have running water, or do you shower in the fountain of Trevi out there?”

“That’s in Rome.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Yeah, I thought so.”

Sam looks at Cas, and Cas shakes his head.

“So?” Dean asks, dropping his duffel on the most fragile–looking table he can find.

“Both rooms have ensuite bathrooms. With running water,” Sam says, eyeing the spindly piece of furniture with some apprehension.

He’s clearly itching to ask what’s wrong, and Cas has to admire his restraint. Of course, both of them are used to the vagaries of Dean's moods, but while Cas doesn’t mind (most of the time), Sam used to be much more confrontational than this. Toni must be a good influence on him, Cas thinks, and he finds joy in the thought. Sam deserves to be happy, and will need to be strong to keep Dean moving forward. Cas has always admired Sam’s inclination to act for the greater good, even if to the detriment of his own life, but that’s not the kind of courage he’ll need over the next few months.

“I’ll take the quiet room,” Dean announces, moving to his left to inspect the door closer to him – the one leading to the room not facing the Piazza. “Since, you know, His Lordship there doesn’t sleep.”

Sam opens his mouth, then closes it.

“Sounds good,” he says, after a full minute of silence. “I’ll let you guys unpack. I need to check on, uh, research.”

“That what kids call it these days?”

“Dean, I don’t think –”

“You know, it actually _is_ research. I’m trying to track a witch – she’s cloaked, I wasn’t even going to ask you,” Sam says, turning towards Cas. “Crowley promised me he’d find her, but, then again, he’s Crowley. He promises a lot of things.”

Dean snorts.

“He mostly delivers, though.” There is such venom in the words that Sam looks at Cas again, then makes for the door, deciding in favor of a hasty retreat.

He’s almost made it when Dean comes back from his own room again.

“Hey, what about dinner?” he calls.

“Dude, it’s not even _six_ ,” Sam says, looking scandalized.

Cas can’t help smiling. He leaves them to it, opening the door to his own room.

“So?”

“So you don’t eat before eight. Or nine. What _are_ you?”

“Uh, _normal_? Jesus, you’ve been here three fucking _months_ and now you’re all –”

The place has been refurbished in a slightly more modern style, and it looks very welcoming. Cas remains on the threshold for another second, trying to push away all the possibilities promised by the wide, soft bed (Dean looking up at him, his face a bit flushed, his soul singing out in an ecstasy of pinks and golds; Dean laughing against his back, kissing his skin just before falling asleep; Dean turning away during the night, struggling a bit against the covers without waking up), walking to the window instead.

Of course, destiny is not an exact science, and time bending even less so. Still, Cas can feel the moment oozing closer, and that knowledge is eating away at his heart and soul.

Or: it would, if he were in possession of either.

As it is, everything hurts, and that’s just the way things are.

“Oh my _God_ , I’ll ask Mr. Cortesi to bring something up for you, why do you have to be so diff–”

“Who? That freak who was about to kiss Cas’ feet? Don’t bother. If this place has a kitchen, I can find it on my own.”

There is another reply, then a string of curses, and, next, a door almost slamming.

Cas crosses his arms, watches as lights pop into existence all over the [Piazza](http://awed-frog.tumblr.com/post/151979542667/the-way-out-is-a-dcbb-2016-fic-it-was-supposed-to) like will–o’–the–wisps. It’s still snowing, but it’s a light, clean thing, and almost no one is opening umbrellas. No, people are mostly happy. Cas can feel their bubbly thoughts, their excitement, and they contrast, very, very sharply, with those of the few people who are not happy to be there. Two of the policemen would rather be inside. Most of the street vendors are tired and unhappy after another day of hard work, and many fear returning to their cramped lodgings – they have not collected enough money to satisfy their bosses. Here and there, a lone tourist is giving in to melancholia – there is a widow who visited this place during her honeymoon, and a sick man who knows he will likely be dead before spring.

# 

And then, of course, there’s Dean, stomping down to a well–stocked kitchen; Dean, who’s feeling more abandoned and useless and unwanted than ever.

“Okay, what’s going on?” Sam asks from behind him. “I’ve never seen Dean so – I mean, I _have_ seen Dean so hurt and angry before, of course I have, but I thought –”

Cas steps back into his own mind, turns around.

“Man, most of the big shit is _over_. The world is not ending, or anything. And you guys – I thought –”

Cas looks away.

“It’s complicated,” he says, and Sam takes a step forward.

“Don’t give me that Facebook bullshit,” he says. “If you’re messing with him, I swear –”

“You swear _what_ , exactly?” Cas asks, and he knows he sounds angry, can see it in the way Sam stops in his tracks, in how Sam’s hand moves to the back of his jeans, where his gun is, but he’s mostly just – curious.

“What the _hell_ is going on?” Sam asks again, after a tense moment. “What’s _wrong_ with him?”

The flash of memory is almost too painful to bear. Dean standing perfectly still; Dean asking, his voice a barely there thing, _Is it_ me _? Is something wrong with_ me _?_

“He’s – disappointed,” Cas says, neutrally. “He will get over it.”

Sam looks at him for a long moment, his right hand still contracting, a bit nervously, as if seeking a weapon. Cas breathes in the smell of his soul – gunpowder and ice and self–righteousness. Sort of how Lucifer used to be. Cas doesn’t think Sam would appreciate the irony, so he says nothing.

“If this is what it sounds like,” Sam warns, in the end, “you and I are going to fight.”

Cas shakes his head.

“I love your brother more than anything in this world,” he says, simply. “If I knew of a way to make him happy, don’t you think I would make use of it?”

At that, Sam relaxes, breathes out.

“Yeah, I – sorry, Cas. I'll just - I need to get on with my research.” The words are a bit too curt, and because he’s feeling all sorts of things now, Cas can see the different colors floating around him. “See you downstairs at seven?”

“Sure.”


	9. ɘƨioИ ɘƚiʜW

As they made their way back, Dean glanced down, more than once, at Castiel’s hand. He couldn’t believe he actually went and licked ice cream off those fingers. And if this had been anyone else, he would’ve just – reached out. Because Dean loved holding hands, but he loved it especially like this, in that moment – when he still hadn’t slept with someone, and everything was a mystery, and even sliding the tips of his fingers, only just, over the other person’s knuckles could make them both shiver with want.

He didn’t take Castiel’s hand, though.

Castiel was not ‘anyone else’.

Castiel was –

Still, Dean couldn’t keep his hands off him – he touched Castiel, lightly, to steer him in the right direction, or to invite him to look up at the crenellated walls of the city, at the elaborately carved church spires. As they walked, the streets got wider and wider. There were some cars now, and Dean and Castiel had to push each other against the red walls of the fifteenth century palazzos more than once to avoid them, but Dean didn’t mind. He liked Cas doing that – looking out for him – and the cars – they were beautiful things in blacks and pastels. Huge Chevys and blunt–nosed Mustangs that spoke of freedom and wide horizons.

And when they emerged into Florence’s big central square, the sight of it took his breath away, as it always did.

“This way,” he said, stepping over the old stones. And, this time, he did take Cas’ hand – or, rather, his wrist – pulling lightly, and Cas allowed himself to be pulled.

And when Dean broke away, Cas caught the edge of Dean’s fingers, and Dean felt that contact course through his entire body like live electricity.

They walked next to the big David, under the Loggia, and sat down on the cold marble steps. Dean liked the place, and came there often. He and Charlie, they talked and drank and watched on as Italian students waited for sunset to flood out of their libraries and take the tourists’ place. Someone always had a guitar, and they all knew all the songs. Mostly, it was stuff Dean didn’t know, though he did recognize a tune once or twice, the English lyrics butchered and shouted to the heavens.

He’d also kissed people under this [Loggia](http://awed-frog.tumblr.com/post/151979845532/the-way-out-is-a-dcbb-2016-fic-it-was-supposed-to), both men and women, but the reason he liked the place so much had nothing to do with those memories: it was simply – the steps were so big, he felt like a small child sitting down on them. He felt – protected. Safe.

# 

“Those are beautiful,” Castiel said, nodding at the statues in front of them. “I’ve been here before, but perhaps I never really appreciated them.”

Dean followed his gaze.

“Oh, them. Never paid them that much attention, to be honest. You know about art?”

“A bit,” Castiel admitted, and then he leaned back, disappearing from Dean’s line of sight.

“Well then. Tell me,” Dean said, more because he wanted to hear Castiel’s voice again than for any true interest in the statues.

“I remember when that one was made,” came Castiel’s deep, sandpapery growl, and then it immediately stopped, and Castiel shifted behind Dean, started again. “I mean, I remember reading that the sculptor melted his own bronze plates and pots to get it done. The _Perseus_ , I mean. You see how he’s holding up Medusa’s severed head? He looks afraid of his own prowess.”

As Castiel talked, the sculpture seemingly took form in front of Dean’s eyes. It was green–blue bronze, and too far away for Dean to see the expression on the young hero’s face.

“Killing monsters,” Castiel added. “Not an easy thing to do.”

“He looks badass,” Dean commented, and heard Castiel shift again, and now he was close enough his knee was touching Dean’s thigh. “What about the big one in the middle?”

“The woman is being kidnapped,” said Castiel, neutrally. “When the Romans first sailed to Italy, they discovered they couldn’t create an empire of men. So they stole women from the neighboring tribes.”

“Okay, not cool,” Dean said, and then he saw it happen again – as Castiel kept speaking, describing the statue in loving detail – the screams and the movement of it – Dean thought he could somehow see it more clearly, as though a layer of fog had been lifted from his eyes.

“What’s special about it,” Castiel said in the end, “is that it can be seen from all sides. Rather like life.”

Dean leaned back so his shoulders touched the marble wall, and inched a bit closer to Castiel.

_I put his fingers in my mouth_ , his brain was thinking, on and off, like a broken, flickering bulb.

Dean cleared his throat.

“What do you mean? Statues are – all statues can can be seen from all sides, man.”

“Well – if you were to stand behind the _Perseus_ , all you’d see would be his rear end.”

“His butt, you mean,” Dean said, feeling about four and yet unable to help it.

“Yes,” Castiel replied, and he glanced at Dean, his eyes softening a bit. “His butt.”

“Okay, and?” Dean asked, after a short silence.

“And this other statue – whichever way you look at it, you’re part of the scene. There’s no escaping. The idea that it’s safe – that you can just – look down on what’s happening, watch on as these people have their lives changed and destroyed – well, it doesn’t work. It doesn’t work,” Castiel added, after a long moment, and something in his voice made Dean reach out, put his hand on Castiel’s knee.

“Hey,” he said. “Whatever it is – I’m sure it can be fixed.”

Castiel looked at him again, brought his hand up, cupped Dean’s face so very delicately – as if Dean were some glass thing in a museum cabinet, something rare and unique and irreplaceable.

“I know it can,” he said, but he sounded so sad that Dean leaned forward and brushes their lips together.

It was very light. A careful gesture which, if you blinked, would never have happened at all, and it felt – _right_ , somehow; natural, as if this was something they’d done a thousand times before. And yet Dean could feel Castiel’s hesitation, his doubts, so he didn’t press for more. He just squeezed Castiel’s knee, drew back.

“What were you going to ask me?” he said, in a low voice. “You know – at the beach?”

“What do you mean?”

Castiel had left his hand fall, but they were still too close to be mistaken for friends.

Dean didn’t mind.

He hoped Castiel didn’t mind either.

“When you asked me about my family – that wasn’t what you wanted to ask me.”

“I like this about you,” Castiel said. “How good you are at reading between the lines.”

It wasn’t a real answer, and it was Cas walking into the dorm’s common room all over again – way too intimate, way too soon. Like he’d known Dean his whole life.

“What were you going to ask me?”

Castiel looked down for a second, then seemed to come to some kind of decision.

“I was going to ask you why you’d chosen not to swim,” he said, and the way he said it – like this were some important thing, a prophecy of doom or some shit, almost made Dean laugh out loud.

He didn’t, though, because there was still that other thing – the fact that, if prophecies were true, then this guy did look the part.

Dean’s eyes hugged Castiel’s sharp profile, his slightly chapped lips, before he said, shrugging, “I was just keeping you company.”

“No. No, you weren’t.”

“Yeah? What was I doing, then?”

“Dean –”

Castiel stopped, then moved slightly, breaking the contact between them.

“I’m sorry. I wish we had more time, or that there was another way. But there isn’t.”

“Another way to what?”

“Lift your shirt?”

Dean stared at him.

“Are we getting kinky? Right here?”

“We’re not here,” Cas said, nonsensically; and then he added, again, “Lift your shirt.”

And Dean had no reason to obey this guy. None.

On the other hand, he had no reason _not_ to, either.

With a frown, he grabbed the edge of his blue shirt and pulled it up. And when he looked down, he let it fall again, getting to his feet with a curse.

“What the _hell_ ,” he snapped. “Are you – are you _doing_ this to me? Did you _roofie_ me or something?”

“No,” Castiel said, and now there was no mistaking the sadness in his eyes.

He got to his feet as well, stepped closer to Dean; invited him, very gently, to lift up the shirt again, and this time Dean did it slowly, all the way up to his sternum.

There were scars and cuts and burns on his skin. Big, ugly things. One of them was still oozing dark blood, though it didn’t hurt when Dean, a bit gingerly, passed his fingers on it.

“A great deal of damage was inflicted upon you,” Cas said, softly. “But you _will_ heal, Dean. I promise you. One day, you will be whole again.”

Dean stared at him, and then reached up, grabbed the guy’s arm as a wave of nausea coursed through him.

_I know you like this, Dean_ , the demon said, pushing the blade in another inch. _I know you love it._

_Fuck – fuck you._

Dean’s words were more blood than voice, and Alastair laughed against his skin.

_You sure? I had you twice today, aren’t you a bit_ , the demon pushed closer to Dean, twisted the knife sharply, and Dean cried out, _a bit_ sore _?_

Dean couldn’t speak, couldn't even open his eyes. He tried to lift his head up, because he hated, hated hated _hated_ , to touch Alastair in any way, but the pain was simply too much. After a few seconds of incoherent, humiliating struggle, Dean let his head fall forward again, against Alastair’s bony shoulder.

_Careful now. Don’t get my clothes dirty_ , Alastair whispered, but he leaned into the contact anyway.

Dean barely heard him. His nose was a broken, painful mass, and the blood in his mouth and throat made it difficult to breathe.

He was dying.

Again.

_You can make it all go away_ , Alastair said, very, very quietly, and Dean slumped forward, the screams in his brain and heart and lungs getting louder and louder.

Just before he passed out, a flash of memory exploded in the gloom – a child’s face, a bit too thin, the hair way too long.

_Why are you sad, Dean?_

Dean blinked against the image, trying to make it go away – to get it _closer_ – and the child came into sharper focus. He was holding a battered copy of some stupid novel – _David_ fucking _Copperfield_ , perhaps - and his movements were tentative as he pushed it into Dean’s hands.

_Can we read it again? the child said. Please?_

And Dean felt it, all of it – love and warmth and and the cold around him and Alastair’s graceful hands snaking around his hips, holding him up – and pain pain PAIN and –

Castiel, gripping him tightly, looking seriously at him in the beautiful summer dusk.

“Are you alright?” he asked, and Dean lurched, took a step back.

“No, I’m fucking _not_ ,” he said, hugging himself, then passing his hands through his hair. “This is _crazy_.”

Castiel just waited.

Dean breathed hard, in and out, flashes of memories and nightmares passing through him like blades.

“This is crazy,” he repeated, louder, as if he could make himself believe it. “And not your _regular_ level of crazy, either. Something so off the charts you can’t even _see_ the fucking charts.”

He looked around. Florence was still her beautiful self – the Loggia all severe in white marble, and small flocks of people moving past its arches, eager to go and laugh at the David. Seized by a sudden fear, Dean bent down, lifted up his pant leg – and, yep, the flesh there was so scarred and ruined and mangled that it was difficult to even describe the mess as a fucking human leg.

“It’s also real,” Castiel said, taking a step closer, and that was just –

“If it’s real, how come it doesn’t _hurt_? How come I don’t remember how I got them?” Dean asked, accusingly, prodding carefully at the biggest scar on his calf – something that looked like an animal bite.

An animal with a mouth the size of a goddamn truck wheel, but, yeah.

“Do you ever have bad dreams?” Castiel asked, quietly, and Dean wanted to pretend he hadn’t heard him – he straightened up, looked around, noticed for the first time how _still_ those other people were – there was this one couple, yeah, that he’d noticed before, because they looked too much alike to be anything other than siblings, and yet they’d been standing way too close and it was creepy – and, well, what they were doing – looking down at one of those huge maps with all the monuments penciled in by some helpful hotel employee – they were doing that twenty minutes ago. And how long could you really look at a stupid map?

As Dean watched, the man lifted his arm to point at something, and Dean realized he’d seen him to do exact same movement before. It’s like they were on loop, or something.

_Fuck._

“Dean, do you –”

“Yeah, I heard you the first time.”

_I know you love me_ , the demon said, and Dean knew, even now, that yeah – that thing had been a _demon_ – he couldn’t understand how he knew, and he wasn’t the religious type, not by a freaking mile, but –

And also, Castiel’s silence was starting to become unnerving.

Dean suddenly realized he should have known where this was going, but he pushed back against it. On the whole, it was way more likely – way _better_ – to consider he’d been drugged than –

Because his dreams –

_Like this_ , the demon said, closing his fingers over Dean’s on the hilt of the knife. _Let me teach you._

Dean shuddered, then tore his eyes away from the creepy twins couple, passed his hands over his face.

“Everybody has bad dreams,” he said, refusing to look at Castiel. “It’s not fucking news, Cas.”

A sharp intake of breath, and Dean turned around.

“What?”

“What did you call me?”

“Castiel? That’s your name, right?” Dean said, and now he was looking at the guy again he couldn’t suppress that huge wave of affection – the memory of Castiel glancing at him, then back at his own hand, his eyes following the quick movement of Dean’s tongue all over his skin.

(The memory – the fantasy, the dream – of Castiel putting his arms around him from behind as Dean cooked; of Dean trying to swat him away with an oily spatula – “Come on, you’ll make me burn this.” – of Castiel replying, his hands slipping lower, “Let it burn.”)

Dean tried to anchor himself in the feeling, even if it was confusing and weird, because this thing between them – it pressed like warmth and sun against his skin; it made those other things (screams and blood and the glint of blades and chains) fade back into the darkness.

Castiel frowned.

“I see. And these dreams –” he said, and –

“I don’t – I don’t wanna talk about it, okay?” Dean said, a bit desperately, but it was too late.

Because there were moments he could almost kid himself he didn’t remember his dreams at all – hours and hours when he was focusing on some project, staring at his graph paper, sucking at his pencil; and those long evenings he’d spent with Charlie at Gus’ pub, Gus pushing beer after beer towards them both as they yelled and cheered like everyone else at some soccer game, Charlie saying tipsily, over and over, “I have no idea who’s even playing.”

But then something would shift, like it was shifting now, like a cloud passing in front of the sun, and Dean would hear it again – the demon’s voice, slow and sweet, almost purring against his skin.

_You love this, right, Dean? You love_ me.

And every time it happened, it felt so _real_ – even now, after what was a perfect day – Castiel walking into his life and a lazy beach afternoon and this beautiful piazza around them slowly welcoming the evening – even now Dean could feel Alastair’s fingers and blades on him.

_Go away_ , he knew he sometimes answered. _Leave me the fuck_ alone.

And, at other times: _Stay with me. I love you, whatever. Just – don’t go._

But this stuff – it had to be a dream.

It _had_ to.

Dean disturbed the edge of an old scar through the well–worn cotton of his t–shirt, then lowered his eyes, embarrassed. He didn’t remember, exactly, what it was that Alastair had done to him in the dreams, but he did know that being left alone was even worse. He knew darkness, and eternity, and the certainty that no one loved him – that no one ever did.

That no one was coming for him.

“There’s no shame in it, Dean,” Castiel said, and Dean shrugged, crossed his arms on his chest.

“Look, I don’t want to be weird or anything, but maybe I should go. Sometimes I get – annoying – when I’m high. And that’s something you don’t want to –”

“I want _everything_ about you,” Castiel said, seriously, and Dean found he couldn’t look at him. “And you’re _not_ high,” he added, his voice hesitating over the last word, as if unsure of its meaning.

“Right.”

Dean looked around – saw a group of circus performers setting up by the big–ass fountain – they were just kids, really, Dean had bummed a joint off the juggler once, and they were here to practice and make a few bucks, but the tourists loved them – and then turned back to Cas, lifted his t–shirt up again.

“Well, you probably can’t see this, but it’s not exactly –” he said, pressing a careful hand down on an angry scar – three vertical slashes going all the way from the end of his ribs to the edge of his pants.

And before he could finish his sentence, he suddenly saw it and heard it – Alastair’s lips on his, and Alastair’s knife – a shiny, ugly thing with three rusty blades, shaped like a claw – cutting through his skin.

_Now look at what you did_ , Alastair had said, taking a step back and pointing at the blood blossoming on his white butcher’s apron.

_Just_ kill _me_ , Dean had replied, the words hurting his throat and heart, because he hadn’t _wanted_ to die, he’d wanted to go _back_ – because his brother – because _Sammy_ –

“Who’s Sam?” Dean asked, looking up, suddenly terrified. “What’s going on here?”

Castiel looked at him levelly, his mouth a line of bad things and broken thoughts and bitter feelings.

“You’re dead, Dean” he said, softly; and then there was a cheer from the square.

Dean turned around on instinct. The fire–breather had started his number.


	10. December 24th, 6 pm

After Sam leaves, Cas walks to the window again, and looks outside.

He can hear, without even trying to, Dean busying himself in the kitchen – joking in a hybrid language made of simplified English and smiles, and teaching the cook how to do a proper BLT sandwich. The poor woman (Edna Lamberti, 56, three adult children, no grandchildren, a fierce loyalty to the Bevell family and a frankly alarming adoration of the shirtless figure of dancer Roberto Bolle) is looking on in horror and amusement as her pristine kitchen, full of wholesome Italian ingredients, is taken over by a savage.

“What do you mean, you don’t have sandwich bread?” Dean asks, and he almost sounds like his normal self – Cas smiles as he – well, he doesn’t _see_ Dean, exactly, but he knows Dean is miming the concept of sandwich bread, insisting the flat, unsalted bread they use in Florence is no good, no good at all.

“ _Peperoni sott’olio?_ ” the woman suggests, and Dean’s good humor turns up a notch.

“Those are peppers, though. Do you actually have pepperoni?”

Cas steps back from Dean’s mind. He didn’t mean to fall inside it in the first place – this is just how things are with them. By now, they are so connected to each other Cas wouldn’t even know how to exist without Dean.

As the thought forms in his mind, he remembers that Dean _will_ , in fact, learn to exist without him, and he wishes he could cry – just let it out – because pain is the hardest human emotion for him to bear, and he doesn’t know how to carry its weight without shattering.

(Not physical pain, that is. Not even regret, or guilt – no, the pain he doesn’t know what to do with is a very precise shade of grief: that which is caused by too much love.)

But Dean is human, Cas reminds himself. Dean will know how to live on without him, because this is what humans do all the time. They lose people, and they stumble, and they fall, and then they pick themselves up and start again.

Cas focuses on the Piazza again. He knows it’s much colder now, and the place is slowly emptying as tourists go back to their hotels and crowd into restaurants. He thinks about that moment with young Leonardo again, and then his mind shifts to a very different afternoon – a day not of catastrophe and grief – an ordinary day. Cas had accompanied Leonardo to the market, but he’d kept his distance, confused and overwhelmed by the loud presence of so many busy people (the mission he was created for: the carnage of battle or the silent, empty rooms of dying kings). And then he’d felt a familiar warmth behind him. Balthazar had come back, from God knew where, his vessel’s clothes a bit askew, his human skin smelling like perfume and sex.

“Are you still here?” he’d asked, to the empty place pervaded by Cas’ Grace. “How dutiful of you.”

_I will be leaving now that you’re back_ , Cas had replied, and then, Balthazar had looked at him with his true eyes, had frowned in worry and displeasure.

_Five thousand years you’ve walked this Earth_ , he’d said, directly to Cas’ mind, _and yet you’ve never claimed any reward for yourself._

_I do not attach importance to such things._

_I know you don’t care for the pleasures of the flesh, but brother – you have the right to understand these creatures you claim to love so much._

_I don’t ‘claim’ to love them. They are our Father’s finest –_

Balthazar’s Grace had lit up in silvery flames.

_You can’t love them if you don’t understand them. And you can’t understand them if you don’t feel their souls and hearts and minds against your own._

Cas looks up at the dark sky, now heavy with snow.

Balthazar had been right.

And Cas had killed him.

Not over this, to be sure, but, in a way, hadn’t that been the same argument?

All of a sudden, Cas knows he can’t stay in the small room for another minute. He turns around, almost runs down the stairs, passes in front of the footman without looking at him, puts his hand on the door handle.

“Running away?” calls Dean’s voice behind him. “Yeah, you’re good at that.”

Cas breathes against the sudden weight of Dean’s soul (pain, hurt; disappointment).

“I simply need some air,” he says. “Would you join me?”

Dean snorts.

“That’s not how it works, Cas. Looks like you need to brush up on your human skills.”

Cas hears him walk up to his own room, shut the door behind him.

It used to be so easy, he thinks, stepping out in the cold December evening.

As he takes a few steps towards the big fountain in the corner, he thinks about that first time he’d noticed – and brushed aside – Dean’s conflicted feelings for him. It had been the same moment they’d first laid eyes on each other, in that expertly warded barn where the black symbols had done nothing to keep Cas out.

(Of course, they _had_ seen each other before that, in a sense, but neither of them truly remembers it.)

Cas had walked in, and as soon as he’d been close to Dean, he’d felt this – this very faint hint of arousal. Cas had assumed he was reading Dean wrong, because that made no sense. And next, of course, Dean had stabbed him, so –

Despite the snow and the cold, a young couple is sitting on the fountain’s edge, and as the boy moves his head closer to the girl and kisses her, a lone white marble [horse](http://awed-frog.tumblr.com/post/151980521217/the-way-out-is-a-dcbb-2016-fic-it-was-supposed-to), his eyes wide and terrified, becomes visible behind his shoulder.

# 

Cas doesn’t know how to stop thinking about Dean, and yet thinking about Dean (Dean’s anger, Dean’s disappointment, Dean’s profound sense of unworthiness) is _poisoning_ him. They have so many unspoken words between them, and as for the rest of it – as for what happened over the last three months – Cas knew this moment would come; he knew he had to die, and soon. He’s known from the very beginning, from the moment he’d put his hand on Dean’s shoulder in Hell. The truth is, he should have stopped anything from happening at all.

But he’d been weak, and his love for Dean is loud and boundless, and when Dean had decided the moment had come – when Dean had walked up to him after doing the dishes, had cupped Cas’ face with his soapy hands and kissed him on the mouth, all hesitation and fear and hope – Cas couldn’t have stopped that if he’d tried.

The quiet December evening suddenly gets darker. It’s not a change in the light, though, but that other thing: a sharp change in – air pressure, as Sam had put it the one time Cas had tried to explain it to him. Something that closes in and unsettles the quiet and brings about darkness and fire. Something that tells you a demon is nearby.

Right now, though, there’s something else behind him – a hint of humanity and the smell of kindness – a twisted, corrupted version of it, but kindness nonetheless.

A demon with a human heart.

“If you're looking for Sam, he's inside,” Cas says, without turning around.

“I know that,” says Crowley, with a little huff. “Who do you take me for? An amateur?”

Cas sighs, turns to face Crowley.

“Are you actually helping him with a witch? Is it true?” he asks, and it’s hard to keep the suspicion from his voice.

It’s not like he doesn’t want to believe the best of Crowley, but, well – he doesn’t.

“God knows _someone_ has to. If that overgrown puppy was left to his own devices – well, we all remember what he got himself into the last time _that_ happened, don’t we?” says Crowley, smiling his carnivorous smile; and then he adds, “And it’s not like I had a choice, considering you and Dean were – _busy_.”

From the way Crowley says the word, Cas understands he knows everything.

Well, not everything, perhaps, but enough.

_Dean won't be happy about this_ , he thinks.

“I see,” he says, as neutrally as he can, and then he steels himself. “Since we have a chance to talk alone – I think the time will soon come for what we discussed.”

Crowley looks away, steps to one side. As Cas watches him, he brushes his fingers against the dark wool of his coat, drying the snowflakes.

“It’s always the same with you,” the demon complains. “All business, no pleasure.”

“I need my way into Hell, Crowley.”

“What, right _now_?” Crowley replies, almost churlishly, and then he pretends to get distracted by a woman in furs and white heels clicking her way across the square.

He looks her up and down, putting on quite the spectacle, but Cas isn’t amused.

“Soon,” he says, repressively, and Crowley finally abandons his fruitless attempts at seeming uninterested and distracted.

“There is only one way into Hell for you now. You know that,” he says, and he’s actually serious – for just a flash of time, Cas can see the real creature behind the sarcasm and the witticism – someone who’s both clever and much less calculating than he’d like people to think.

“Yes. It is irrelevant. Did you bring it?” Cas asks, and he can’t help it – when Crowley opens his coat and shows him the decorated pommel of an archangel’s blade, he takes a reflexive step back.

Crowley grins.

“Where did you even find one?” Cas breathes.

He’d told Crowley it doesn’t matter, and he’d been sincere, but still –

“You told me to be prepared and ambitious. I merely followed your advice.”

“I never said any such thing,” Cas says, and Crowley shrugs, closes the lapel of his coat so the blade disappears again – not hidden by tailored wool, that is, but probably back in some enchanted chest disguised through space and time.

“Not now, you didn't. This was years ago. Or, tomorrow. Probably. Whichever way you want to look at it.”

“Time is a confusing thing,” Cas agrees.

There is a sudden flutter against his soul – Dean is thinking about him. Longing for him, that is, and even if he now knows Cas can feel it, sometimes he can’t control it. Cas raises his eyes past Crowley, up to the windows of the Bevells’ palazzo, and Crowley follows his gaze before burying his hands into his pockets.

“Castiel,” he says, after a full minute, and then he hesitates. “I have to ask you – are you _sure_?”

Cas doesn’t even have to think about it.

“It's Dean,” he says, simply. “Wouldn't you be?”

Crowley pauses.

“I like the guy – he has his moments,” he answers, and he’s so skillful he almost sounds sincere. “But that doesn't mean I'm suicidal.”

Cas just smiles – his smile is for Dean, though – Dean who’s now gone to annoy Sam in an effort to distract himself. Cas can feel him moving around in the old house, can feel his pride and affection as he crashes inside Sam’s study without knocking and finally sees the life Sam’s created for himself in this fairytale city – the books, the maps, the rows of dictionaries and what looks like sheet music, the notes written in some dark red ink which might very well be blood. As Dean starts to make fun of Sam for something or other, Cas closes his eyes, allows himself to step into the world of humanity for a minute – to delight in the cold snow blossoming on his face, and the faint smells all around him (a man passing behind them with a kebab sandwich, Crowley’s understated cologne, that thing humans don’t know the true name of and just call winter) – and then he breathes out.

He doesn’t mind the price.

_It’s Dean._


	11. ɘmoɿbnyƧ lɒʜbnɘƚƧ ɘʜT

Dean looked absently at the flames.

They were so _real_.

The fire–breather bent down, spat out a mouthful of paraffin, then turned to the small crowd and grinned. From where he was standing, Dean could just barely see him – a tall, strapping guy with a ponytail.

He remembered the evening he’d talked to the guy – Gus had closed the pub early because someone had started a fight, and then he’d met Dean and Charlie outside. _Let’s move this party_ , he’d said, clapping Dean on the back and producing a bottle of Craig from the inside of his jacket; Charlie had laughed and scolded him, because really – but Dean had grabbed the bottle and opened it. _It’s not stealing if you’re stealing from yourself_ , he’d said, taking a deep swig. And then they’d walked, tripping and cursing at the irregular pavement, stumbling against each other. Dean had wanted, in some vague way, to go to the beach, even if it had been winter and freezing cold; Gus had shaken his head at him. _You want to freeze your bollocks off? Let’s go somewhere warm._

They hadn’t, though. They had ended up here, in the Piazza, because this is where they always ended up, and Dean felt himself sway as he watched the circus artists, because what if – what if that hadn’t been geography and drunkenness and general idiocy – what if Castiel was right, and this was death, and the Piazza was some kind of – of –

Dean took a step forward, then another, until he reached the marble banister, and then he leaned on his elbows, looked at the thing.

Because Castiel couldn’t be right. Because the whole thing was batshit insane.

# 

Because the [square](http://awed-frog.tumblr.com/post/151980855297/the-way-out-is-a-dcbb-2016-fic-it-was-supposed-to) was _real_. It glimmered with light, with people – Dean looked at the fire–breather again, remembered how that had gone down – he’d walked up to the guy after the performance – he’d meant to ask him back to his own room, because, Jesus, the guy'd been exactly his type – dark–haired and strong and maybe a bit dangerous – but had chickened out instead, maybe because Gus and Charlie had been there, watching him, probably laughing at him behind his back. And so Dean had just asked for a cigarette, had shuffled closer as the guy bent down to light it for him, his ponytail falling over his shoulder. Dean had wanted to reach up and slide the leather band off his hair. Instead, he’d done nothing. He’d inhaled, sharply, to light the stupid cigarette he hadn’t even wanted, and only then he’d noticed the smell of the fire–breather – gasoline and sweat and something deeply, unashamedly male.

He’d turned around, then, walked back to his friends, caught a glimmer of something on Gus’ face – amusement, perhaps, or pity. It’d been hard to tell.

“Fire is a vicious thing, but it has its beauty,” Gus had said, with something that hadn’t been quite a smile, and Dean had pushed him, forced the lit cigarette between his lips.

“Don’t be scared,” said Castiel from behind him, and Dean almost jumped.

He hadn’t heard the guy move, but judging from his voice, he was now standing right behind him.

“I’m not,” he lied, leaning forward again, clenching his hands against each other. “I’m just high. This is paranoia or some shit. Hell, you’re probably not even real,” he added, after another minute.

Castiel didn’t answer, and Dean bowed his forehead against his closed hands for a second – hell, if he could, he’d pray, because this mess – because there was no way – but praying had never even been remotely on his horizon. And even with his eyes closed, Dean could hear the noises of reality blooming all around him – the voices of the tourists, and a group of teens disappearing around a corner, loudspeakers shouting out some kind of metal music in their wake.

And also Castiel’s voice, coming deep from some place inside himself – _You can’t save everyone, my friend. Though, you try_.

Dean clenched his hands more tightly, felt his skin almost breaking. There was a hint of memory with those words – a Castiel much different from this man wearing a threadbare shirt and lazying around on a Thursday afternoon. The guy Dean was thinking about – an understated figure in a rumpled trenchcoat – he felt both as someone Dean had once seen in a dream and as familiar as the palm of his hand.

 _I’m hallucinating_ , Dean thought. _I’m high. I’m_ not _hurt and I’m_ not _dead. I just need to –_

“Dean?”

Dean breathed out, straightened up. When he turned around, he found Castiel smiling softly at him – a sad thing, a barely there apology.

“Dean – what is your mother’s name?”

It didn’t matter that Castiel clearly didn’t want to do this. He was still doing it, he was still trying to – hell, Dean didn’t even know, and he was feeling increasingly more confused and paranoid. His hand moved of its own accord, his fingers catching on the edge of the scar again. Dean looked at Castiel, then away. His mother’s name. His thumb inched under his tee–shirt, feeling the hard, irregular bit of skin – a bad wound which had never healed right.

“Dean –”

“Shut up – just – shut _up_ – don’t _talk_ about my mom – my mom – she’s –”

Dean had been about to shout her fucking name at him, just to shut the guy up, and found he couldn’t.

He didn’t know.

In fact, he couldn’t even remember his mother’s _face_. All he could see was a clean kitchen, the kind of thing you’d see in a magazine, complete with an apple bowl on the counter. Nothing more.

“My mom –”

Breathing hard, he pressed his palm over his stomach, felt it become slightly wet, the fabric now dripping, only just, with dark blood.

He looked down at it, incredulous, shocked, then back at Castiel; and then he moved away – walked to the entrance of the Loggia, his eyes on the dark square in front of him. He thought vaguely about running away – all he wanted was to find Charlie, or anyone else – his physics professor – fucking _Gus_ – hell, anyone he’d ever known in this damn city, because they _had_ to know what was going on, because he’d been drugged and he couldn’t – and then he felt Cas’ warm hand on his back, between his shoulderblades.

“Breathe. This will be difficult, but you can do it. In fact, you’re very good at this. I believe in you, Dean.”

Without even realizing he was doing it, Dean relaxed back into the touch.

“I’m very good at _what_? And why do you keep saying my name?”

“Because it’s one of the few things they’ve left you,” said Castiel, from behind him; then he added, quietly, “Your name is Dean Winchester. You’re from Kansas, not California. And you’re not an engineering student. You’re a hunter.”

Dean almost laughed. This was – this was beyond –

“Right. A _hunter_. That’s not even a job anymore, buddy.”

Castiel said nothing. His hand was very warm against Dean’s back.

“And what am I supposed to hunt, then? Deer?”

“Monsters,” Castiel said, and there was something in his voice – Dean thought it sounded like regret, but, then again, Castiel just had this motherfucking voice – everything he said had this hint of doom and the promise of –

Dean shook his head, then punched the column he was leaning against, viciously, almost breaking his hand in the process, and turned around.

“What, like Tiny Dick Joe over there?” he asked, gesturing to the _Perseus_ statue, hoping he wasn’t as close to throwing up as he felt. “Please. If you’re gonna lie to me, make it convincing. There’s no such thing as monsters.”

“You hunt vampires and ghosts and ghouls,” Castiel said, seriously, his blue eyes very bright in the half light. “You’ve killed a few werewolves, too. Shapeshifters. Demons and gods.”

“Shut _up_.”

“Your name is Dean Winchester and you’re a hunter. Your mother died in a fire when you were four. Your father was killed by a demon. And your brother is still out there, and he’s _desperate_ to find you.”

“Shut the _fuck_ up.”

“Sam _loves_ you,” Castiel said, taking a step closer to Dean, getting as close as he could without touching him. “He wants you _back_. He _needs_ you back. You have to get out of this place.”

“I don’t – that’s not true,” Dean said, and he tried to inch back, found himself blocked against cold marble.

Something about Castiel’s words was reaching right inside his stomach and twisting.

_Sam loves you._

_Sam loves you._

_Sam loves you._

Dean’s mind filled with dark, muddy things. There was Alastair, smiling at him now, and that smile made him look ordinary, even handsome, in some way, and not like his normal self at all. And then Dean remembered when he’d first woken up, hanging upside down from the ceiling, and had seen the guy sitting cross–legged on the floor right in front of his face.

 _Look at those lips of yours_ , he’d said, reaching out, pressing his thumb on Dean’s mouth. _I could kiss them for hours – or rip them right off._

Dean closed his eyes.

 _Sam_ loves _you._

The thing shifted, shades of red and grey and black folding over each other, becoming the geometric pattern of a motel blanket.

_Dean, when is dad coming back?_

_Tomorrow, Sammy. Dad’s coming back tomorrow._

_You said the same thing yesterday._

_So what? You getting bored? You and me – it’s cool. It’s like an adventure. Like in your pirate book._

And here, again, a long–haired child. A tiny person, unhappy and scared and angry, an uneaten bowl of cereal nesting on the pillow next to him.

 _What if he_ doesn’t _come back?_

And those were nightmares, definitely _nightmares_ , nothing more, but Dean always remembered every single one of them; he’d wake up in his tiny room, the desk and wardrobe looming, unfamiliar shapes in the faint light of dawn, his heart a mess of guilt and panic. Because the torture had always felt real, and also the pain, so much so that Dean always turned on every light, checked his face and arms for bruises, but even as he passed his fingers on the uninjured skin, he always knew the worst thing about that place where Alastair had smiled at him was that other thing – being alone. Being quite _certain_ he would have been there forever, Alastair purring and slashing at him, because no one _cared_ – no one wanted him _back_ – no one thought Dean mattered at all.

_He’ll come back, Sammy. And I’m here, right?_

Castiel reached out, slowly, as if asking for permission, and when Dean didn’t move, he cupped his face, just like he had before – very, very gently, as if Dean could actually break right in front of him. Dean leaned into it, turning his face into Castiel’s palm, and the touch grounded him, giving him the strength to wonder if all those things – the flames and the blades and the darkness – were not, in fact, nightmares, but memories.

And if they were – if Castiel was telling the truth –

_No._

He couldn’t bear the thought, and not because of what was done to him, but because –

“You were lost, Dean. For a long time, you were lost. And now it’s time you were found again.”

Dean tried to focus on the words; on the contact between them, on the warmth of Cas’ palm. He stared into Castiel’s blue gaze, a bit desperately, as he pushed back against the things flashing in front of his own eyes: Alastair opening his ruined and broken fingers as a child would, hoping to find a hidden toy, and placing his own knife in Dean’s palm, the bone handle already slippery with blood.

 _You’ll like it_ , he’d said, whispering the words against Dean’s neck. _You’ll_ love _it. You were born for this, Dean Winchester._

Dean _Winchester_.

And then, so suddenly it very nearly split his head and heart in two, a different scene exploded inside Dean’s brain – a tall man pinned against a wall by an unseen force, crying and yelling –

_No, no – stop it – stop –_

It was difficult, and also the easiest thing in the world, to recognize the man’s face – to see, inside his features, that child biting his lip as he tried not to cry; to remember him changing, growing up, looking first up at him, and then down – Dean had been twenty–one, he was sure of it, when he’d first noticed his stupid kid brother was now taller than he was, and –

“Fucking _hell_ ,” Dean said, reaching up, a bit blindly, for Castiel’s wrist.

“Dean?”

“Tell me about my – tell me about Sam,” Dean asked, because he did and didn’t remember, but he could feel something there, tugging at his very soul –

“Sometimes you call him Sammy,” Castiel said, and Dean could hear the smile in his voice. “When you’re worried, but also when you’re happy. He likes to read. He doesn’t laugh very often, but when he does, your soul opens up like a flower. Sometimes he dreams about moments of your childhood – about one time when you stole fireworks for him and you both ended up dancing in an empty field like nothing else mattered.”

It wasn’t a very effective description, and not what a human being would say, Dean suddenly realized, something deep inside him waking up as he suddenly _knew_ – knew like he knew his own body – that Castiel had been telling him the truth – that those things he’d been dreaming about, they were fucking real, and dangerous – that Alastair was not a shadow, but a demon, and –

“What _are_ you?” he whispered, just like he’d done back at the college, and his hand tighetened a bit around Castiel’s wrist; but Castiel ignored the question.

“He loves you and you love him, fiercely and forever. You sold your soul for him. You went to Hell so he would be spared.”

This time, the memory went through Dean like a knife, sharper and worse than anything – worse than Alastair smiling at him, worse than his own hands crushing bones and tearing flesh. Because Dean suddenly remembered kneeling down in the dirt, the heavy weight of his brother in his arms – he remembered passing his fingers through Sam’s matted hair, calling his name, over and over again.

And at that, he broke contact with Castiel – pushed the guy back, turned around, feeling his way against the marble column like a blind man, breathing in the reassuring glow of the summer evening around them – and he shut it down, because he had to shut it down, because he couldn’t – he couldn’t _take_ it. He couldn’t _bear_ it. Because it wasn’t _real_ , none of it, no matter what his stomach and lungs and brain were yelling at him. Because Sam was no one, because Dean didn’t have any brothers – what he had was a house back in California and a mom who loved him and Charlie –

“This is not Hell,” he said, weakly, glancing over his shoulder at Castiel, then at the huge statue behind him – at those marble people trapped in a single second of violence and hurt. “This is Florence. I’m finishing a Masters in Engineering. This is real.”

Castiel shook his head.

“This is not Florence. This is Italy – the way you imagine Italy to be. They’ve done a shoddy job of it,” he added, then looked up, as if reproaching some invisible man behind the curtain. “All of this – I think it comes from a commercial for your favorite pizza place.”

“What?”

“The beach you brought me to today? That’s in Genoa. Those battlements we’ve seen walking back? Milan. And there – you see that tower in the distance?”

Dean’s eyes followed the direction Castiel was pointing towards. There were the beautiful palazzos, lining the Piazza; and beyond them –

“ _Fuck_ ,” he said, completely shocked.

Because that was the Leaning Tower of Pisa. And Dean was never much of a bookworm, but he still knew Florence and Pisa were two different cities. And even as he watched, the white tower faded back into the dark sky, almost guiltily, and then it was gone, as if it had never existed at all.

“They wanted you to be happy,” Castiel said, from behind him. “And this reality – these are bits and pieces of the person you could have been. If you didn’t come from a long line of hunters. If your mother hadn’t died. If your father had been a different man.”

His eyes still on the now empty patch of sky, Dean thought, again, about his mother’s neat kitchen, and the thing shook inside his mind, as if hit by an earthquake. The bowl on the counter cracked and shattered, the apples – too shiny and round to be real apples – scattered all over the floor, and Dean found he couldn’t remember what color that floor was. He tried to focus on other details – this was the house he’d grown up in, for fuck’s sake – but there was nothing there.

“That makes no sense,” he said, just this side of throwing up.

He took a wobbly step forward, suddenly eager to get out from under the Loggia, afraid it might collapse and bury them both; and then he added, closing his arms around himself, “I need a drink.”

“Dean –” Castiel called, but Dean ignored him; walked away.


	12. December 24th, 7 pm

“Okay, I get why you like it here,” Dean says, digging into his second serving of wild boar.

Sam rolls his eyes.

“Yes, Dean. This is _exactly_ why I came here. Because of the _food_.”

Dean grins, but it is, Cas thinks, an empty kind of grin. He’s trying to act normal, and, to his credit, he’s been trying all day; but the thing is, it’s just not working. Cas knows Dean is a master conman, and an extremely good liar. After all, he was trained from childhood to hide his true feelings, and to even forget he had any. But more and more, that mask is slipping, and an evening like this one, in a world without monsters (or: without _big_ monsters) – an evening where everything is the same and yet everything is different, because Sam is happy and in love and maybe not coming back, and Dean and Cas are no longer what they used to be – Dean gambled with that, and lost, and it’s Cas’ fault, all of it –

“Oh, is _that_ how you want to play it? Heard from Toni, then? Wanna talk about _her_?”

Sam rolls his eyes a bit more.

“They’re leaving early tomorrow morning, and everything’s already taken care of. She wants Fitz to open his presents at home, and then there’s a kind of formal lunch up at the –”

And Cas was never good at pretending to be human. He’s trying, though – when he’d first explained, in flawless – if a bit dated – Italian that he wouldn’t be eating, the waitress had been outraged. The cook had been summoned from the kitchen, and Cas had tried to disappear into his chair as Sam grinned at him and the thing became bigger and bigger – when the other patrons had started to pitch in, suggesting dishes _l’Americano_ was sure to like, Cas had given up. And so now he’s doing his best – he’s chosen the same wild boar _spezzatino_ Dean has picked for himself, and he’s trying to enjoy it (he’s trying to focus on his food instead of listening to the music of Dean’s soul), but he knows Dean is not fooled.

And now there is a moment he thinks Dean will actually talk to him – scold him, perhaps, or make fun of him, because that’s what Dean used to do when watching Cas pretending to be human – but then Dean sort of steels himself, chews on another piece of meat, turns to Sam instead.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, just this side of rude. “There’s turkey, right?”

Sam is trying as well. Cas can see his soul – flickering, sort of – the shade of it moving from light blue to dark blue and back again as Sam schools himself to ignore whatever’s wrong between Dean and Cas – to stay out of his brother’s business, to accept there are things he can’t fix – but, like Dean, like Cas himself, Sam isn’t being all that successful.

“I don’t know,” he replies, doing his best not to stab his ravioli. “We’re in Italy, Dean.”

“It’s _Christmas_ ,” Dean says, reaching for his wine. “What about the fucking cranberry sauce?”

Cas knows it’s a mistake to say anything, but he can’t help himself.

“It’s likely they’ll have goose,” he says, mildly. “Structurally, goose is very –”

“I don’t care about the damn _structure_ , Cas. I’m _human_ , remember?”

Sam may not know exactly what’s going on, but there’s no mistaking Dean’s tone of voice. It is, very plainly, an _I was not good enough for you so shut up and leave me the hell alone_ kind of thing, and Sam’s thinking so loud that Cas is having trouble staying out of his mind – which is problematic, because Sam is thinking that, out of the two of them, Dean was always the one most keen to forget what Cas actually was – to insist Cas was a person, or like a person, anyway, and now –

“Goose and turkey are very similar in taste. That’s all I was saying.”

“Yeah, well, no one asked you.”

“Dean, cut it out.”

“Mind your own business, Sammy.”

“You’re my brother. And Cas is my friend. This _is_ my business,” Sam argues, and Cas straightens his back a bit as if he could inch away from the loud colors of the brothers’ souls, which are glimmering, for a moment, in the exact same hue of dark blue and grey – anger and sadness and bitterness.

Dean drains his expensive wine.

“You up and left, man,” he says, in a low voice. “So, no, it’s not your business anymore.”

Something almost dents inside Sam, but before that dent can turn into a full fracture and make him shatter from the inside out, anger takes over.

“I didn’t up and leave. I was _kidnapped_.”

“Yeah, and I feel real _sorry_ for you,” Dean replies, motioning with his empty glass at Sam’s well–cut clothes and the restaurant around them – a small, intimate place with black and white photographs on the walls.

“And that would never have happened if –” Sam starts, and then he stops, puts his fork down.

The words, however, are already there, in the thick air between them.

“If what? If we hadn’t split up? If I hadn’t gone after Amara? If I hadn’t been ready to _die_? Because that was kinda _your_ fault, Sammy. _You_ let her out.”

“You were _dying_ ,” Sam says, lowering his eyes.

“And if you’d _let_ me, none of that shit would have happened,” Dean retorts, and now he’s furious, and Cas can feel, in the careful way Dean’s avoiding to look at him, that Dean’s including everything in the blunt statement – not only Amara violating the world and killing hundreds of people, not only Lucifer coming back, not only Dean’s own choice of self–sacrifice, but the last three months as well – the whispered conversations in the dark, the careful kisses.

He remembers, again, Dean nuzzling against his naked back.

 _If I say you’re a duck, you’re a goddamn_ duck.

“I only did what you would have done for me.” Sam finally looks up, and then notices the elderly couple staring at them from the neighboring table, and he manages a tired smile – _Don’t worry, family stuff_.

“Yeah, don’t be so sure about that,” Dean mutters, and he starts on his meat again – Cas sees him checking the exit points, wonders if he should go instead.

It’s his fault, he thinks, if Dean and Sam are fighting. If he hadn’t encouraged Dean – if he hadn’t allowed Dean to put this thing between them into words –

“And what is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“You and me – we’re different. Like, this Stockholm crap you’ve got going –”

“Dean –”

“– people shooting at you and wanting you dead and whatever – that gets you _panting_ for it, right?”

Cas knows how vicious Dean can be when he puts his mind to it, and he knows he mostly does it as a form of self–defense, because he longs to be pushed away for being this thing he’s not – a man of uncaring and harsh words – rather than waiting to be discovered for what he actually is, and still losing everyone. Still, it’s been a while since he and Sam have fought at all, and this sudden shift into coarse language – this careful circling and taking aim –

“What the hell is _wrong_ with you?”

“And, hey, at least this time it’s a _chick_. Because let me tell you, seeing you all hot and bothered for fucking _Lucifer_ wasn’t –”

“Dean –”

“Shut _up_ , Cas. Sam knows what I’m talking about. Don’t you, Sammy?”

Sam remains completely still for a full minute. He simply looks down at his now cold ravioli, his long hair hiding the expression on his face, but Cas can see it well enough – how hard he’s working to keep his anger in check, and the burning shame now slithering in – and, again, Dean’s soul is burning in the same colors, because Dean loves his brother to the death and he’s not nearly as drunk as he’d like to believe. He knows what he just said is very nearly unforgivable, and he hates himself more than ever, because he never meant to hurt Sam – because what he really wants to do is slam Cas against a wall and get an answer to his question ( _Is it_ me _? Is there something wrong with_ me _?_ ).

But, of course, he’s too afraid to do that, to see the _Yes_ forming in Cas’ eyes. Cas had seen that fear plainly the first and only time Dean had asked that question – he’d seen it in the way Dean had set his jaw and walked away before Cas could even decide how to explain –

“I need some air,” Sam says, in the end, but as he moves to stand up Dean slides his own chair back with a screeching noise.

“Don’t bother. I’m going.”

Before either of them can react in any way, Dean’s shrugged on his jacket and slammed a fifty euro note on the table. And then he leans forward, steals a piece of cold meat from Cas’ untouched plate.

“You don’t mind, do you? Wasted on you, anyway,” he says, coldly. Then he chews his morsel, straightens up, looks at Sam, and the expression on his brother’s face seems to bring him back to his senses, if only slightly. “I’ll see you back at the house,” he adds, which is as close he can probably come to an apology right now.

And next, he’s turned around and disappeared into the dark December night.

“ _Dolce? Caffè?_ ” asks the motherly waitress, appearing out of nowhere, and Cas sort of chats with her so he doesn’t have to listen to Sam light up in remorse and guilt and the poisoned temptation of a thousand _what if_ s.


	13. (Call Us What You Will)

After Dean leaves, Sam sits still for a long time, his hands closed into fists. He doesn’t know what the hell is wrong with his brother, and right now he doesn’t care at all.

Dean’s words are beating on the inside of his skull like a faulty tap. Annoying, painful, shaming.

_Sam knows what I’m talking about. Don’t you, Sammy?_

The restaurant dims around Sam as he tries to understand how Dean _knows_. Because Sam had lied to Dean – he’d never wanted Dean to know the truth, he couldn’t _bear_ – and he still remembers how that had started – they’d been in some library, because Dean could be clever when he wanted to, and he knew Sam inside and out and Sam was always relaxed when surrounded by books. And even in that moment, with the end of the world inching closer and closer and angels and demons hounding their every move, even then Sam had breathed out in relief when they’d stepped inside the place.

It had been almost completely dark – they’d decided to break in because this was a high school library and they hadn’t been able to come up with a convincing excuse to look at the yearbooks.

Dean had made a beeline for them, eager to go back to the motel and sleep off the long drive, but Sam had lingered by the desks, and finally had sat down on one of them, picking up an abandoned copy of _The Magic Toyshop_ and flicking through the pages. There had been scribbles all over the lines, Sam can still see them now – thin words traced in blue and black and red, and asterisks, and, sometimes, a smiley face, or an exclamation point.

“Dad almost blew a fuse when you brought that thing home,” Dean had suddenly said from behind his shoulder, and Sam had very nearly jumped – no matter how well they know each other, there are moments he forgets what it is that they do, and the bizarre set of skills that they both have.

“Dude,” he’d said, but Dean hadn’t let it go.

“It was pink, wasn’t it? With a swan on the cover? Dad probably thought you’d turned full –”

“ _Dean_.”

Dean had walked around the desk so he could sit down, plucked the book from Sam’s hands.

“Who had you read this again? That old lady with the purple hair?”

Sam had needed a moment to understand whom Dean was talking about.

“Mrs. Taylor? Nah, she taught Spanish. I think we read this with Mr. Harrison.”

Dean had grunted, unconvinced.

“Whatever. It was weird as _fuck_.”

“It’s a novel about free will.”

“Yeah, well, it’s also about a girl getting raped by a swan puppet, so.”

Sam had realized only much later – once all that shitstorm had passed, and after the Leviathans; perhaps when the Mark had taken his brother away, and Sam had needed to rebuild him from memory, piece by piece, to remind himself Dean was still out there and wanted to be saved – that Dean had spent most of his childhood pretending to be much more stupid than he actually was. During one of those lonely nights in the Bunker, with Cas on the other side of the country and Dean God knew where with Crowley, Sam had scratched at his cast and thought about that conversation. How he hadn’t even realized, all those years before, the implications of it – that Dean had actually read _The Magic Toyshop_ – that he’d pilfered the book from Sam’s backpack, probably at night, when Sam was sleeping, and gone through the whole thing. Maybe he’d done it out of habit, because this was something Dean used to do when they were younger – help Sam out with homework, and also vet his books for him, because Sam had this tendency to hoard every single book he found – and those were mostly things left behind in motel rooms and on diner chairs – things Dean would snatch from him, and maybe tear two or three pages out of, before giving back.

But maybe he simply liked to read.

The thought had been strangely painful.

And Sam remembers how Dean had flipped through the pages, back and forth, the only light Sam’s flashlight, shining on the floor at their feet, before saying, almost warily, “He isn’t telling you to do stuff, right?”

Sam had frozen.

“Who?” he’d asked, and Dean had breathed out, half irritated, half afraid.

“The damn _Joker_ ,” he’d replied, closing the book with a thump. “ _Lucifer_ , who do you think? He’s not telling you to kill me. Or kill yourself, or saw cows in half or something.”

“No,” Sam had said. “He doesn’t say much at all.”

Dean had looked like he’d wanted to press the point, but Sam hadn’t let him. He’d already told Dean that Lucifer had showed up as Jess that first time, and he’d since regretted sharing that, because it had turned Dean’s frown from worry to _Right, I’m ganking the fucker_ , and how could they ever win against an archangel?

So he hadn’t told Dean about those other times.

And now Lucifer is gone. Sam knows this.

And yet Lucifer is also there, and Sam forces himself to open his hands, press his palms down on his knees.

Because it seems the bastard got what he wanted, in the end: to be part of Sam. There’s no pushing him out, not completely – the memories of him; the sound of his voice.

Sam breathes out, shakes his head. From the corner of his eye, he sees Cas get up from the table and leave, and he’s grateful for it. He’s always afraid Cas can see everything that goes on inside his mind, and the thing is, his mind’s not a pleasant place to be at the best of times, and right now –

_Sam knows what I’m talking about. Don’t you, Sammy?_

Lucifer had this way of saying his name, like it meant everything and nothing, all at once.

“Sam,” he would murmur those first few times, and Sam would wake up and find Jess in his bed.

“You’re not real,” Sam would say, turning his back on the first woman he’d ever loved. “You’re not her.”

“Sam,” Lucifer would say again, and he’d been so good – he’d sounded exactly like Jess – he’d managed to copy that voice she used to talk to him, and the sugar and worry and care she poured into every word.

And in the beginning, nothing would happen at all. Sam would shut his eyes tight, put his hands over his ears, and when he finally manned up and turned the lights on, Lucifer would be gone.

But then one night – one night, Lucifer had sat down on the bed instead, right on the edge, all polite and demure. Sam hadn’t looked at him, because he was afraid he would cry – because he remembered Jess doing exactly that, because Sam by the time he'd gotten to Stanford he'd been bored out of early morning activities by a childhood spent sparring with his brother before school. And so Jess would wake up, do those mysterious things women do in the morning – yoga, perhaps, or make–up and shaving and braiding her hair, even if Sam always told her he would love her whatever she looked like and forever – that he couldn’t tell the difference between lipstick and no lipstick, and that he was too distracted by her breasts and her wide eyes to notice if she’d shaven or not – but Jess would always wake up before he did anyway, and then come back to bed, and sit on the edge, exactly like that, on the very edge, her back straight, her hands on her knees, her blond hair almost glowing in the faint light of dawn, and then she would –

When Lucifer had reached out and put his hand on Sam’s thigh through the sheets, Sam had frozen.

“Don’t touch me,” he’d said, and he’d meant for that to be an order, but it had come out as begging.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not – because you’re not – you’re _lying_ to me.”

“I will never lie to you, Sam. You know exactly who I am, don’t you?” Lucifer had said, and Sam had found himself unable to look away as the archangel’s eyes flashed pure white on Jess’ face. “I am yours, and you are mine.”

“I’m not – leave me _alone_.”

And that day, Lucifer had disappeared.

But the next day, he’d been back.

“You’ll never have this again, Sam,” he’d said, in Jess’ practical, reasonable voice. “Why not indulge yourself while you can?”

And Sam – the first time it had happened, he’d been drunk out of his mind. And the second time, he’d kept his eyes closed and pretended it was a dream, because, really, it could have been a dream. And the third time, he’d pressed his hands on his eyes, then pushed himself up on his elbows, and looked down at the person between his legs. And he’d seen a man looking back at him, his face open and friendly, his hands warm on Sam’s thighs.

“I could tell you that I love you, Sam,” the man had said, softly, “and it would be the truth. But what I _will_ tell you is that I understand you. _This_ is what you’re craving, isn’t it? This is what you've wanted, your whole life.”

Sam had been unable to speak, to move.

“It doesn’t surprise me. You didn’t know it, but your soul was yearning for mine. This is why you felt – lonely. Left behind. Because I was kept from you.”

The thing is so real, Sam shivers in the slowly emptying restaurant, thinks he will be sick.

“But now I’m here. Everything will be different once you say yes, Sam.”

Sam had closed his eyes, and when he’d opened them again, Lucifer had disappeared. The room had been quiet and normal, the smell of their fast–food dinner still lingering in the air. Sam had glanced at the other bed, and when he’d seen the way Dean was sleeping – completely dressed, even his socks and shoes on – something had snapped inside him. They were adults now, and Sam hadn’t dared to do what he’d done so often as a child – to just climb into Dean’s bed and push his nose against Dean’s sleeve and hope the nightmare would fade – but he’d still crawled over to Dean’s bed, his legs too weak to walk, and he’d sat down next to it, turned his face against the soft cotton of Dean’s shirt, his cheek scratching against the cold metal of the cuff buttons.

Dean hadn’t woken up, and he hadn’t said anything in the morning, which had been definitely more than Sam had deserved; and then, after another long day of driving and breaking into morgues and staring at dead people and digging graves, he’d found them a fancier motel, splurged on a room with a nice TV and a couch. And he’d grumbled at Sam’s choices – a documentary about birds and half of a British movie, had pushed his feet on Sam’s lap before relaxing back into the arm of the couch and falling asleep, his whole body a deliberate message – an invitation for Sam to stay exactly where he was.

It hadn’t been like sharing a bed, and Sam had woken up in the morning with his neck a bit stiff, but Lucifer hadn’t come.

His phone buzzes, and Sam passes his hands through his hair, checks the little screen.

It’s a message from Toni, something about the train she and Fitz will be on tomorrow, and then a short, dirtier addition that makes Sam happy Cas is still in the bathroom, because forget about his _soul_ – he thinks he’s actually _blushing_ here.

And Dean’s hurt and weird and he didn’t mean it, Sam thinks, pushing his phone back into his pocket, because Toni is _nothing_ like Lucifer. Nothing at _all_. She’d never wanted to kidnap him in the first place – she’d been ordered to, and she’d been desperate to get her hands on the Bunker’s books, hoping there would be something in there about Fitz and the prophecy and Welsh magic and the once and future king, because if that was true – if it was really _Arthur_ staring back at them from Fitz’s open, sky blue eyes – well, of course she’d needed to know. And Sam hadn’t fallen for her because she’d shot him – Sam loves her because she’s good and kind and smart and loves her little boy without rhyme or reason – and whatever’s wrong with Dean, Dean had no _right_ –

 _Do you think fighting me will change anything? This is your_ destiny _, Sam. You will come to love me, if you don’t already._

– and this is it, Sam wants to know what the _hell_ is going on, because he meant what he said – because Lucifer had been _wrong_ and he’d understood _nothing_ of love, despite the things he’d done to Sam, despite his dangerous talent to _know_ Sam, deeply and intimately and better than even Dean had ever been able to.

Lucifer had been _wrong_.

Sam never loved him, but he loves his brother, and he loves Cas, and he will find out what’s going on, and he will _fix_ it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter is a line from John Donne’s _The Canonization_. I love Donne, and I thought his peculiar brand of desperate romance and fascination with death ( _We can die by it, if not live by love, / And if unfit for tombs and hearse / Our legend be, it will be fit for verse_ ) sort of works to explain that dangerous, toxic thing that was between Sam and Lucifer. You can find the poem here .
> 
> Oooh, and _The Magic Toyshop_ \- *melts into a puddle*.


	14. ybnɒƆ bɿɒH

Gus’ pub was completely empty.

Dean stopped on the threshold, looked at the place – the dark wood walls lined with photographs, the guitar behind the counter (it was signed by Jimmy Page, and Gus had tried like nothing else to convince Dean it was the real deal), the neat line of bottles on the shelves. _Scotland’s finest_ , tall, black letters proudly declared; underneath there was the outline of a thistle, sketched by a quick, talented hand.

“Gus?” Dean called, warily.

No one answered.

Dean looked over his shoulder. Castiel had come with him – he’d hesitated, almost expecting to be left behind, until Dean had gone back, seized his hand, and laced their fingers together.

Because the thing was – Dean still didn’t know what to feel about any of this. What was real, and what wasn’t. Hell, he’d seen a building vanish in front of his eyes, and his body was a mess of bites and cuts and burns, but he’d just walked the streets of this city – he’d waded his way through crowds of tourists – he’d been tempted by the bright glow of a dozen ice cream shops. So, well. Everything was fucked up, and Dean sort of wanted to crawl into his bed and hope that this day had never happened at all.

But that _pull_ between him and Castiel – that was different. That, Dean was sure about. It was just there, like a solid object. Dean could feel it – a warm, cozy joy in the pit of his stomach.

Whatever that shit around him was, Castiel was - _good_. 

And the idea of leaving the guy behind had been –

“I don’t think anyone’s here,” Castiel observed, staring curiously at a picture of Gus and Francis Scott Fitzgerald (clearly photoshopped, ‘cause Gus was, like, forty something) hanging right by the door. “Dean, this is not –”

“I need a drink,” Dean said, firmly, and then he stepped inside the place, reached behind the counter, grabbed a bottle of Johnny.

He waved it towards Castiel, and when Castiel shook his head, Dean shrugged, opened it and took a swig without bothering with a glass.

“So, I hunt monsters,” he said, his hand tightening on the neck of the bottle. He thought maybe he was just testing the words, seeing if saying them out loud changed anything (it didn’t). “And I have a brother, and I’m dead and this is Hell.”

“Yes,” said Castiel cautiously.

“Then why is everything so damn _nice_?”

“Dean, I –”

“Yeah, so I have bad dreams. This is what you wanted to know, right?” Dean said, and he tried to stop talking, found he couldn’t. “I dream about this guy cutting into me. Doing – _things_ to me. And I dream about me giving it right back. And it’s –”

Overwhelmed, he drank again. Castiel said nothing.

“And maybe that’s Hell. What people think Hell is like. But this –”

Again, Dean looked around. This is where he’d met Charlie, he thought. Well, technically, they lived in the same dorm, so he’d seen her around – she was difficult to miss, with her bright red hair and her stupid backpack – a clunky blue thing shaped like the damn Tardis – but this is where they’d ended up sitting side by side, looking at the same girl.

“She’s hot,” Charlie had said, taking a sip of her ridiculous cocktail.

“Yeah,” Dean had replied, more out of politeness than anything else; and then she’d glanced at him and added, “Her boyfriend, too,” and Dean had grinned, because he wasn’t in the closet, not exactly, but this was the kind of thing he was careful with, because there were assholes anywhere and being bi just meant admitting you were a slut, right? Someone who just wanted it from everybody.

But Charlie – she’d been okay with it. She was just cool that way.

“Yeah,” he’d said again, and she’d grinned back at him.

_Right._

“– this is _nice_ ,” Dean finished, lamely. He didn’t know what else to say, so he just leaned back against the huge pool table, took another swig of whiskey.

There was a moment of silence, and then –

“Are you happy, Dean?” Castiel asked. Reaching out, he pressed a hand on the wall, as if testing its solidity.

“I’m having a good time,” Dean shrugged.

“But are you _happy_?”

Dean frowned, put down the bottle and grabbed a bright red pool ball.

“I –” he started, but he found he couldn’t finish the sentence.

The ball felt solid in his fingers, and yet those other things were starting to feel solid as well. Like the child – the guy crying and raging over his death.

Sam.

Dean closed his eyes, searching for more – memories, or fantasies, or whatever. Striving to see anything at all, and -

A small boy, sitting on a rickety couch, his knees drawn up. He’d been hiding his face, and only his badly–cut hair was visible. Dean had moved towards him, sat down.

“Sammy, talk to me.”

“Why is Dad always so _mean_?” the boy had asked, without looking up, and Dean had heard in his voice he’d been crying.

“He’s not. He worries about you. He wants you to be _safe_.”

The boy had sniffled. Dean had tousled his hair, felt the outline of an old scar there (not monsters: just a baseball).

“I’m old enough to hunt,” the boy had said, into his knees. “I _want_ to hunt.”

“Look, I told you – I asked Dad, and he said –”

“You’re _lying_ ,” the boy had answered, and now he had looked up, his voice shaking with sudden anger. “You never _did_ talk to him. You’re _lying_. Why do you always _lie_ to me?”

And standing there, in a bar at the other end of the world, Dean knew, as clearly as he’d ever known anything in his life, that he’d been about to say, _Because I love you_. He could still feel the taste of the words on his tongue.

“Sam, what me and dad do – it sounds cool, but it’s not. It’s _really_ not,” he’d said instead. “Just – go to school, okay? Me, I was never good enough, but you can still have a normal life, you can –”

And the boy – the boy had lunged forward, started hitting Dean, pulling at his hair.

“I don’t _want_ a normal life,” he’d shouted. “I want – you don’t _know_ what it’s like – to sit here and think – and then you come back and you’re _hurt_ and I wasn’t there –”

“It’s not your _job_ to take care of me,” Dean had said, starting to get angry himself, trying to get a hold of the boy’s wrists.

“Yes it is! You’re my big brother! I _love_ you!”

They’d stared at each other for one second before the boy, now blushing furiously, had stood up and ran out of the room, slamming the door behind him, making this thing inside Dean’s head – the memory – shake at the hinges and then fade out like morning fog.

Dean put the ball back on the green fabric of the pool table, pushed it, watched it go towards a hole and fall inside it.

Something was really wrong here.

“Why do they want me to be happy?” Dean asked again, and he tried to wrench his mind off this other life that was not his, off this child he didn’t know, but found he couldn’t.

(In fact, he knew what happened next – he knew the boy – Sam: his kid brother – had never mentioned that again, because that moment between them had been girly and embarrassing.

He could remember himself staring up at the ceiling, unable to sleep because of Dad’s drunken snoring; he could remember standing up, moving over to Sam’s bed, and climbing in, pushing his brother closer to the wall.

“What?” Sam had asked, sleepily, and Dean had replied, “Shut up, bitch.”

“Jerk,” Sam had said; but still, he’d turned around, pushed his nose into Dean’s sleeve, as he’d done when he’d been much younger than eleven, and Dean had felt like everything was alright with the world.)

“Hell is – complicated,” Castiel said, distracting Dean from that distant October night. “People think the problem with Hell is that you can’t get out. But that’s not true. The problem is that you don’t _want_ to get out.”

“What?” Dean asked, staring at Castiel, trying to make sense of the words.

His mind was only half focused on the conversation, however, because ever since Castiel had mentioned the name _Sam_ , memories of that kid brother Dean could have had in another life had been shimmering all over his mind, like light over water; and Dean still wanted to believe he was dreaming, or high – he was clutching to that, he was willing himself to forget about the vanishing tower, and about his injuries, and about those empty–eyed, robotic people he’d seen at the Loggia – he wanted, more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life, to believe he was just this guy from California who was six months away from a degree in engineering and a job at General Motors, but the thing was, the fragmented memory of that kid wouldn’t let him.

A kid Dean didn’t know at all, and had never seen before today.

Castiel moved at the edge of Dean’s vision, and Dean picked up the bottle again, and drank, more to give himself courage than for anything else.

“Heaven is not about sitting on clouds. Heaven is about becoming your true self, being at peace with who you are. And Hell – Hell is the opposite of that. Hell was always meant to take everything away from you and make you into someone you never were in the first place. That is the definition of true blessing, and true punishment.”

 _You love me_ , Alastair said again inside Dean’s head. _You love this. This is who you are._

Dean gritted his teeth against it, tried to remember he wasn’t there – in that dark room, overgrown with the coppery smell of blood and bad things. He was here, in Gus’ pub – the place that French guy from his Math class had had his birthday party in only last week. Dean’s eyes moved from the still figure of Castiel, almost blending against the background in his dark clothes, to the rows of bottles behind the bar. Someone had found a box of drink umbrellas, he suddenly thought. They’d all put one or two in their drinks, and Charlie had laughed so hard at Dean’s beer glass, almost dwarfed by a pink paper umbrella with red hearts on it, that she’d almost passed out.

Dean shook his head.

“How is this something _bad_? How is it something I’m _not_?” he asked, and Castiel looked at him with – pity, almost (pain).

“You don’t love anyone,” he said, simply. “You have no free will.”

“That’s –” Dean started to say; but there was nothing after that, because –

 _I love my mom_ , Dean thought, as fiercely as he could, but the thing deflated like an old balloon as soon as Dean put it into words, because the thing was, he didn’t _know_ his mom. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t remember what she looked like, or even her name. He still knew there was something real to do with California, with Stanford, but now he couldn’t –

Putting the bottle down, he moved to one side, closer to the counter, and tried to think about Charlie instead. Charlie was his best friend, and the little sister he never had, and Dean liked her a _lot_ , and he wanted to be able to say as much to Castiel. He wanted to put his hands on the guy’s chest, to grab that black, worn fabric in his hands and _shake_ him – force him to accept he was _wrong_ , because Dean –

But the thing was, Dean didn’t know what he felt for Charlie. He thought about her and felt – nothing. Sure, he had fun hanging out with her, but – and he’d been sort of irritated at the fact she’d disappeared into thin air, and Dean would actually need her now and she was nowhere to be found, but still –

Feeling like the biggest jerk that ever lived, Dean tried to imagine the reason Charlie wasn’t there with him was because she’s died. Drowned, perhaps. Or a car accident. Anything.

He built it inside his mind, just the way he built his engine models with careful strokes of pencil – he saw Charlie, her face completely bloodless, her mind and heart and words gone forever from this world. He imagined the funeral. And walking into her room afterwards, being asked to dispose of her things; passing his fingers on the spine of her books, on the Hermione figurine she kept on the desk.

And he felt nothing.

 _You’re just like me_ , Alastair said, reaching up as if to clean blood off Dean’s face; smearing it all over his mouth instead. _You just don’t realize it yet. All these feelings, Dean – this bleeding heart of yours – wouldn’t it be easier to just shut it all down?_

“Dean?”

Dean became aware, vaguely, of Castiel walking closer to him, putting a hand on his arm.

“Cas, I can’t – is this –”

Castiel’s hand gripped him more firmly.

“This is _not_ who you are,” he said, in that deep voice of his, and Dean shuddered.

“Promise?” he asked, glancing sideways at the guy, his eyes hesitating on the familiar features.

“Promise,” Castiel said, firmly. “I’ve known you a very long time, Dean. I know you can love.”

Something flickered on his face, there and gone in a heartbeat.

“But you have a decision to make,” he said, and, before Dean could ask about that change in his eyes, he checked the clock over the counter. “In six hours, if they allow time to work properly.”

Dean followed his gaze, frowned. According to the old–fashioned thing, it was almost midnight. Which was definitely not possible.

“A decision?” he asked, turning around a bit, so he could look Castiel straight in the face; maybe Castiel misunderstood the movement, because he stepped back at once, breaking the contact between them.

“You could stay here,” he said, absently passing his hand on his nametag. “Or you could go back.”

Dean stared at him.

“Back where?”

“To your life on Earth.”

_You are dead, and this is hell._

Dean clenched his jaw.

“If this is a mirror reality,” he said, after a long, long silence, “and I’m not saying I believe that, because, _Jesus_ – but if it is, does that mean that I’m not – what does it mean? That I never went to college? Never met my mom? My cousins?”

Castiel looked down, then back at him.

“That’s right,” he said, and something in his voice told Dean Castiel was very reluctant to discuss any of this.

But – there was no other way, right? This was stuff Dean needed to know. If this thing was truly real – if he had a choice to make –

“And all this,” Dean added, with a vague gesture, “it never happened at all?”

“Until recently, you never left the United States,” Castiel said; and then he smiled softly. “You’re scared of flying.”

“Yeah, I know that. Fuck, that _sucks_. And what about Charlie?”

“That was unnecessary,” Castiel said, and now he looked angry, and even more unwilling to talk.

“Cas, just – out with it.”

Castiel clenched his jaw, then glanced at the pictures again, his eyes hesitating on the ones closer to him – Gus and his celebrity friends.

“Time is an illusion,” he said, carefully, “and those with the skill to do so can –”

He stopped, tried again.

“Charlie is real. You haven’t met her yet. You know, outside. In the real world. But you will.”

Dean suddenly wished he hadn’t left the bottle on the pool table. _What the –_

“So, wait – she’s in Hell too?”

“No. I told you, none of this is real. The Charlie you’ve met – that’s the memory of her inside your head. A memory that technically you don’t have yet.”

This was insane, and Dean said as much.

“What’s the fucking _point_?” he asked, because if he was really high, this had to be the most fucking confusing paranoia nightmare he’d ever had. “Of Charlie? Of anything?”

“Charlie dies,” Castiel said, after a very long pause. “And you will blame yourself for her death. Forever.”

That shut Dean right up. He thought about the little fantasy he made up, shoved it aside; he thought, instead about Charlie falling asleep on his belly during a _Star Trek_ marathon; about her smiling brightly up at him; about her pointing at a white board covered in scribbles, her eyes darting to the small hourglass, other people’s laughter in the background; about Charlie shaking her head and tsking at him and saying, “That was _The Good, the Bad and the Ugly_ – seriously, have you even played _Pictionary_ before?”

“This is why they allowed you to have her memory, but erased Sam from your mind. Because they want you to stay, and they think that if the stakes are high enough –”

“So, wait – are you saying that if I stay here, she never dies?”

“No,” Castiel said. “I am saying that if you stay here, that particular future will never come to be. But Charlie could be – hit by a bus, or anything else.”

“That’s not – and what about _my_ timeline? What about if I go back? How does she die?”

Castiel remained silent, and Dean suddenly found he couldn’t take it any longer – with a muttered curse, he walked up to Castiel until they were way too close.

“ _Tell_ me,” he said, and when Castiel refused to meet his eyes, he reached out with both hands, cupped his face. “Cas, just – tell me.”

And something on Castiel’s face softened and hardened at the same time, something that turned into an expression Dean really wished he could kiss off that mouth. He let his hands fall instead, and Castiel sighed.

“She will be murdered,” he said, his words dripping with with hurt and self–hatred. “It will be my fault, as much as anybody’s. You will have nothing to do with that. Not that I’ll ever manage to make you believe that.”

Dean frowned.

“Wait – you and I – we know each other? Outside?” he asked, because, whatever, this feeling of – of recognition, of love, almost – after reality had started to unravel all around him, Dean had sort of assumed –

And this time, Castiel smiled, and his smile was just that: a smile.

“Not yet. But we will.”

“What are you, man?” Dean asked, for the third time.

Cas looked down, pulled at the hem of his t–shirt, as if straightening it.

“I am an angel of the Lord,” he said, in the same serious, sensible voice he seemed to say everything else, and Dean stared.

“Yeah, right,” he blurted out, when he could speak again. “There’s no such thing.”

“I can show you, if you want,” Castiel said, and then, bizarrely, he checked his watch. “I think I still have time for that.”

“You got somewhere to be?”

“Something like that.”

“And what do you mean, you can _show_ me?”

Castiel tilted his head a bit to the side, as if considering the question.

“I think I can – allow you to feel my truest self,” he said, slowly. “My Grace. For a couple of seconds. You are not my vessel, which means that, technically, any contact of the sort should make your soul explode, but you’ve been able to bear glimpses of me in the past, and I think –”

“Whoa – _what_?”

“In the future, I mean,” Castiel amended, but it wasn’t nearly enough.

“No, what – go back to that other part – you’ll make my soul _explode_?”

“This,” Castiel said, reaching out and passing a hand on Dean’s arm, “is not your body, but your soul. Your body is currently buried in a clearing in Illinois. And if I –”

“What?” Dean said, again, and he knew he should probably pull himself together, but –

“It’s a beautiful clearing,” Cas said, sounding almost defensive.

“Hunters are burned, though,” Dean said, and then he blinked.

He had no idea where that had come from.

Castiel smiled at him.

“Your brother couldn’t bear to,” he said, gently. “He’s still trying to bring you back.”

Dean tried to think about the guy – to see him, to _remember_ him, goddammit – but, again, all he had were fragments, and this time they brought him back to a line of white letters carved into black metal: _Sam Winchester_ , the thing said, and there was something of a child’s hesitation in it.

“If I – feel your Grace, or whatever – will I be able to remember him? Sam?”

“I think so.”

“And everything else – Charlie, this city – that will go away?”

“I don’t know. It could. But their grasp on your mind is very strong.”

“What about –” Dean asked, and then he stopped, because saying Alastair’s name out loud – and he knew that wasn’t the fucker’s real name, but still –

“There is nothing I can do about him,” Castiel said, and, again, that soft something that was between pity and pain flickered in his eyes. “But those memories _will_ fade. In time. You will be whole again, Dean. One day.”

Dean swallowed, looked away.

Castiel was kind, and that’s what you said to people, wasn’t it? That time heals all wounds, and all that other bullshit – but if those were not nightmares – if that was real life, no way Dean was ever coming back from it. The things that had been done to him – Hell, the things he’d done _himself_ –

“Whatever,” he said, crossing his arms. “Let’s level the playing field a bit. Go ahead.”

“Are you sure?”

Dean looked at Castiel, and like the first time he’d seen him – that morning, or tomorrow, or whatever the fuck – he was overwhelmed by a huge wave of recognition and kinship.

He and this guy – they were supposed to be together. To fight on the same side. No doubt about it.

“I trust you,” he said, simply, and Castiel remained very still for a second; then he walked forward, and as he did, all the lights of the pub went out.


	15. December 24th, 8 pm

After Dean is gone, everything is quiet for a long time. Or, well – Cas perceives it as a long time, because he can almost smell the memory of Lucifer on Sam’s soul (the way Lucifer had said Sam’s name? just like Jess had – as if it weren’t a name at all, but a sound – something short and sweet, like those words people use with horses). And Cas knows Sam’s never told Dean the full truth about his twisted relationship with Lucifer, because he always assumed Dean wouldn’t understand – and he hadn’t been wrong. Michael had wanted to _take_ Dean, but Lucifer – Lucifer had wanted to _give_ himself to Sam. In his way, Lucifer had loved Sam, bared himself to Sam, and Sam’s understanding of who and what Lucifer was – the thing is so vivid, so precise, and Cas is humbled by it. He’d sensed from the start that Sam was uncommonly good at understanding the supernatural – in a way, he’d even understood God much better than Dean, and certainly Cas himself, ever did – but this level of insight into a being as powerful as an archangel fills Cas with awe.

He knows that, for Dean, the thing was always black and white, and he knows Sam resents that, especially given the relationship Dean himself has with Crowley. Not that Sam _likes_ Lucifer, on any level, but Lucifer had crashed into Sam’s life – into his mind – so brutally and completely Sam had been forced to see the beauty, not only the fire and the gale. And Lucifer had been beautiful, once. Parts of him had been beautiful to the very end, Cas is convinced of this, because there is something primordially pure about archangels, a kernal of light and goodness nothing – not Gabriel’s insouciance, not Michael’s and Raphael’s pig–headedness, and not even Lucifer’s monstrous crimes – could completely erase.

And Sam – Sam had been held underwater for so long, he was not only forced to see it – he had embraced it so he could survive. It is his nature, after all, to seek justice and truth and to find a saving grace in anyone.

Cas closes his eyes, upset by the sudden strength of Sam’s memories (by the violence and the gentleness within them); when he can bear it any longer, he stands up, walks idly to the bathroom, and splashes his face with cold water.

They’ll have to talk. Sam will want to know what’s wrong with Dean, and Cas doesn’t know what to do. For years now, his highest law has been to obey Dean’s commands, whether spoken or unspoken – and Dean ordered him, very clearly, not to talk. Then again, Cas can feel his own end approaching. Dean will need someone on his side soon, and the thought of leaving him behind with Sam unaware of his plight is a terrifying perspective.

Cas looks at his own face in the mirror, and tries to see what Dean sees. Not a vessel, not something which is not even a human body any longer, but an object shaped by God so that Cas could come back to Earth and finish his mission. No, Dean would see it differently. Blue eyes and dark hair – traits Dean was always partial to. And those few lines around his mouth – Dean would see them for what they are: Cas’ attempt to better fit in inside Dean’s own life. And as for the rest of it – Cas tilts his head to one side, only just, so he can see the precise place Dean had loved to lick and kiss and bite – the stretch of skin between neck and shoulder, a precious spot Dean would uncover with utter care, or with hasty desperation, one hand undoing the buttons of Cas’ shirt and the other closing firmly in Cas’ hair.

Thinking about these moments is shameful and inappropriate. Surely Dean wouldn’t want Cas to revisit them now they’re no longer –

Cas grips his hands so tightly on the edges of the sink the thing almost comes apart in his hands. Finally, he straightens up, walks back the their table.

When he sits down again, Sam is finishing his second cup of espresso.

“Right,” he says, his soul a discordant music of determination and bitterness, “out with it.”

There is no point in pretending he doesn’t know what Sam is talking about.

“I can’t. Dean made me promise not to.”

Sam looks down at the dark wood, then picks up an unopened sugar package, moves it between his fingers a bit too aggressively.

“Okay. Don’t say anything then. I’ll do the talking.”

Suddenly, Cas feels it again. A slight ripple in time, as if someone were calling for him. The thing that tells him the moment to go is almost upon him.

“The day we finished that damn case – when that nest of vamps was cleared out and Toni and I left for Europe – that was three months ago, right? Middle of September or so.”

Yes, Cas remembers that day. He remembers Dean sitting behind the wheel of the Impala for a long time after – not driving, just listening to his sharp as glass music and looking right in front of him at the bleak parking lot of New York’s JFK airport.

“He’s going to be fine,” Cas had said, after a while, and Dean had started, as if he’d completely forgotten Cas was even there.

“Yeah,” he’d said, a bit roughly. “I know.”

And then he’d started the car, and the thing – Sam leaving, Sam possibly not coming back – had never been mentioned again.

“And Dean didn’t take it too well. Me leaving,” Sam adds, unnecessarily.

“He could see you were happy,” Cas tries to say, but Sam shakes his head.

“He still didn’t take it well. I know _I_ didn’t. Hell, when we got here – the first two weeks or so I think I –”

Sam stops talking, and all Cas gets from him is the barely there impression of a dark room – of Toni, her silk camisole shining a bit as she moves, sitting up in bed, turning to Sam, placing a hand on his chest, talking to him. Of Sam turning towards her, the way Dean also used to with Cas, to bury his face against her thigh.

“But he also liked being alone with you. I _know_ he did,” Sam adds, shaking off those memories like a dog would raindrops. “I love Dean, and I think I understand him, but you – you get him in a way that’s completely different.”

Cas says nothing.

“I saw it from the start, you know. The way he looked at you. I’m not blind.”

Sam drops the now ruined sugar package into his empty cup, almost reaches out to touch Cas’ arm.

“And I’m okay with it, Cas. I really am. I know Dean thinks I don’t know – about you, and about those other guys – but he hasn’t exactly been subtle about it. And I’m _okay_ with it,” he repeats, stressing his words a little, as though Cas needed convincing.

“I know,” Cas says, because he does; and he finds himself hoping – much too loud and much too bright – that Dean does, too.

“So I get that it happened – I’m _happy_ that it happened, Cas. Dean needs you, and you make him –”

Sam hesitates, as if looking for some kind of adjective, but Cas shakes his head.

“I don’t make him anything. He’s already everything,” he says, quietly, and then has to look away at the expression on Sam’s face.

There is a peculiar – hue – to human worry; to affection and to wishing things could be fixed with a hug. Cas was confused by the weight of it at first, because he had witnessed the emotion many times, but it had never been directed towards him. And then he’d come to accept it, from both Dean and Sam – to anticipate it, even, and rely on it. But now it is both very, very good and almost too much to bear.

“Cas, what _happened_? Why did you break up with him? Are you _leaving_?”

Sam was clever. Cas has to give him that. Because, well, working it out wasn’t, perhaps, very difficult, but putting the accent on Cas, not Dean – adding that final _Are you_ leaving _?_ – Cas has no reason not to answer that, and Sam knows it. What the secret always was: Dean’s words, Dean’s feelings, Dean’s heart. And Cas won’t betray that. But as to his own motivations –

“Yes,” he says, slowly. “I have to.”

The disappointment on Sam’s face is very, very loud.

“You’re going back to _Heaven_?” he asks, moving back in his chair. “After everything that happened? After everything Dean’s –”

Cas wishes he could tell Sam the truth. It seems wrong, obscene, even, that Crowley knows and Sam and Dean don’t. But, then again, Crowley would never try to stop him. Those last soft–spoken words of his ( _Are you sure?_ ) are as far as he’ll go.

“Sam, I –” he starts, and doesn’t know how to finish his sentence.

Sam stares at him for another minute, then stands up, suddenly dwarfing the rickety old table with his impressive size. He picks up the note Dean left behind, takes out his own wallet as he moves away from the wall.

“Let me guess,” he says, tonelessly. “It is what it is. It’s necessary. It’s more important than us – more important than even Dean ever –”

And now Cas is standing up as well. He moves to close in on Sam before he even knows what he’s doing, and he would have pushed Sam against the wall if Sam hadn’t moved back on his own, his hand instinctively going for a weapon.

“Never say that,” Cas snaps, and then he realizes how absurd the situation is – how out of control he is: Sam is not an enemy, he’s Dean’s brother, and he loves Dean, and they’re standing in a very public place – Cas can hear the thoughts of the other patrons, they buzz at him like moths against glass –

“Cas,” Sam says, but Cas has already stepped back.

“Never say that,” he repeats, his voice hoarser than usual. “I told you – I have no choice. And Dean – Dean is –”

Sam puts his hand on Cas’ arm, and Cas looks up at him.

“You will look after him,” he says, and it’s not a question. “ _Promise_ me, Sam.”

The restaurant is very quiet around them as people watch the strange, compelling fight taking place right in front of them. Italy’s used to strong family arguments, and Cas can feel the patrons are already trying to forget those other things – the hint of silver as Sam had gone for his knife, and Cas’ eyes turning slightly bluer, almost white, when he’d lost control – he knows all of that will be overlooked, because that’s what humans are like. They want a normal life. They need to feel safe. They don’t want problems that can’t be fixed. And this man now looking down at him, his eyes half–hidden by his long hair, this man and his brother – they are the exception. They are the reason why so many people have the luxury of looking away – like Cas himself, they are warriors and were trained to wound and kill and outsmart their enemies. And, unlike Cas, they were born with free will – they understand free will in a way Cas never will – and yet chose to keep fighting.

They are a marvel, both of them.

Cas puts his hand on top of Sam’s.

“Promise me,” he says, again, and Sam’s soul lights up – sadness and regret and a tired, fierce determination.

“I promise,” he says, and Cas almost has to close his eyes as the sudden flare of silver and gold that is Sam’s love engulfs them both.


	16. ɘɔɒɿᎮ

“What’s that?” Dean asked, and found himself reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there.

“They finally noticed I’m here.” Castiel’s voice sounded oddly disembodied in the sudden darkness.

“But there’s still time, right?”

“I don’t know. Possibly.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“Both the future and the past can be rewritten at will, Dean. There’s no such thing as destiny. You taught me that.”

Dean had been looking to where he knew the door was, squinting in the dark to see the outline of it, bracing himself for an attack, but at that, he took a step back, startled, and looked back at Castiel’s silhouette.

“What?”

Dean heard Castiel snap his fingers, and next, there was a soft, bluish light around his face, hugging his sharp features, and Dean found he was unable to ask the rest of his question, and unable to look away, because Cas –

“But we could try it. It could get them here faster, seeing me for what I am – or it could slow them down. At this point, I don’t know.”

Every nerve in Dean’s body was yelling at him – to hide, or to just fucking _run_ , because if the demons were real and they knew where he was – if _Alastair_ – but he forced himself to stay perfectly still, because he’d said yes to this, and he knew, as precisely and painfully as he’d ever known anything, that it was the right thing to do. And if Castiel hurt him, well, Dean had been hurt before. He could take it.

Castiel looked at him then, both sad and reproachful; Dean wondered if the guy could actually read his mind; shrugged the thought off.

“Just do it,” he gritted out, and Castiel exhaled.

“It’s not that easy,” he said, and for the first time, there was a touch of impatience in his voice. “You think your soul looks like this – a human body, something I can simply put a hand on and touch, but –”

“But what?” Dean asked, sharply, feeling more and more exposed and vulnerable with every passing second.

Castiel didn’t answer. He frowned, and then, finally, raised his right hand, put it right over Dean’s heart.

The big mirror on Dean’s right cracked down the middle – a sharp, dangerous sound.

“If you’re doing this, hurry the fuck up,” Dean said, and then he closed his eyes, but he couldn’t keep it out, not fully –

(Alastair’s breath against his neck, his hands on Dean’s hips – stilling him, guiding him.

_Very good, boy. You were born for this, you know?_

_Please_ , Dean had said, and Alastair had laughed against his naked back, tipping his head to rest his forehead against Dean’s shoulder.

 _Oh, you say the best things_ , he’d whispered. And later –)

– and when he opened his eyes again, he found Castiel staring back at him, his left hand hovering very close to Dean’s face, as if to comfort him. And Dean – he never meant to ask him this, because he never did, because he was never allowed to and that’s something he could sort of see, written all over a man’s face now hovering in his mind’s eye – a dark–haired man with a leather jacket, all glints of metal and glass and stern, commanding words – but it still slipped out, and –

“Will it hurt?” Dean asked, and Castiel let his left hand fall again.

“Most likely.” He looked down, then up at Dean again; and then something changed on his face, something that looked like awe and the sound of things clicking into place. “And it will leave a scar. For a time, at least.”

As Dean watched, Castiel moved his hand until it was on his shoulder, not his chest, and as soon as the warmth of Castiel’s palm seeped through his shirt he could feel it, too – how right that was, how that was supposed to happen, in some weird, unfathomable way.

The light surrounding Castiel flared even more against the dark.

“Dean, are you sure?” Castiel asked. “If you remember, you’ll have no choice but to get out, and – the life waiting for you out there – there is more pain, Dean. More loss. Difficult choices. Here, you’ll have a happiness of sort.”

Dean turned his face away, looked at the counter, barely visible through the gloom. He thought about Gus laughing, and he thought about Charlie, at how she would press closer and closer to him the more she drank, babbling happily about hyperspace and cyberspace and things Dean couldn’t understand at all. About the smell of her hair, oranges and cloves – a sweet, Christmasy thing Dean was used to smelling on his own clothes by now.

“You know me,” Dean said, his eyes still on the faint gleam of the bottles on the shelf. “The real me. You know what I would want. You pick.”

Castiel remained silent for a minute, but his fingers contracted, only just, on Dean’s shirt.

“It’s – you can’t ask me that. I made grave mistakes in the past, and I – you don’t even know who I am,” he tried, in the end, a near stammer and reluctance all over his voice, and Dean finally turned back to look at him and smiled.

“Sure I do, Cas,” Dean said, going for a joke and failing. “It’s written right there.”

He tapped his finger on the sticker over Castiel’s heart, and at that, Castiel seemed to relent.

He nodded, tightened his grip on Dean’s shoulder.

“You stay with me, okay?” he said, nonsensically, and before Dean could think of an answer, a sound started all around them – something that was not a noise, but not quite music, either – wind through the trees, in a way, but as if someone was deliberately turning it into an instrument –

Dean looked up, fascinated, as the light surrounding Castiel grew bright enough to outline the shape of his wings – two gigantic, broken down shadows of bone and burned feathers shooting up from his human shoulders, dwarfing the entire room around them. Dean cursed out in wonder at the sight of them, because broken as they were, they grew up and up, and curved against the ceiling and came back down, seemingly shielding them both; Dean followed the pattern of power and destruction they wrote all over the walls right back to Castiel’s face, which was beautiful and scary in the bright light, because Castiel – he was the same, but also different – the guy who’d smiled at Dean and offered him an ice cream cone, but also – _also_ – Dean had to force himself to stay still, not to step back, because the creature in front of him – Dean had no doubt, in that moment, that Castiel could shatter whole cities if he so wanted; that he could take whatever Alastair had left of Dean and blow it into dust – and yet, Dean stayed still, because that sound around him was growing louder and louder, and inside there was everything else – not only Castiel’s sheer power and magic, but also compassion, and love, and – incredibly – doubt and hurt and –

Dean didn’t understand it, but it never mattered, because just then Castiel’s eyes burned so bright Dean couldn’t look at them anymore – he shielded his face with his right arm, but he could still feel it, that complete, utter devotion that was at the core of whatever the hell Castiel truly was, and –

And then it was like a switch was turned on inside his head, and Dean cried out, darkness pressing over his eyes and mouth, and then –

The first thing Dean became aware of was warmth and the smell of apple pie. He breathed it in, his eyes closed, wondering at the stab of familiarity – of safety; then he closed his hands into fists, bracing himself, and blinked his eyes open.

The pub had gone, as if it had never existed at all. No dark wood walls, no glittering rows of bottles. Even Castiel – Dean was vaguely aware of the angel, like you would be of a distant memory, but his attention was fully on the room now around him. A plain, suburban kitchen. Nothing special.

And yet.

And then, two figures flickered into existence, and Dean felt his right hand go to the back of his pants, instinctively, and remembered what Castiel had told him ( _You’re a hunter, Dean._ ); he let it fall down and frowned.

The woman, he didn’t remember at all. He couldn’t see her face – she had her back to him, and was washing the dishes, the sploshing of the water a normal, comforting sound. And the child – Dean had disregarded the child at first (no threat), but now he looked at him, his frown deepened, and he took one quick step forward.

The child was about four. His hair was a bit too long, his pajama top was already stained at the wrists. Dean turned around the table, moving carefully so as not to disturb the woman (though he could probably have passed right through her, because if Castiel was right, these were memories, and not –), shook his head at the child.

At _himself_.

He didn’t remember ever having been that small – and maybe Charlie would have laughed at him because, well, nobody ever remembers, right? – and that’s what childhood is like, but Dean could feel it in his heart, all the same: how important this room was, how crucial that he remember.

He looked down at the child again, at the way he was staring at a dirty bowl in front of him, a mess of butter and sugar plastered all over the blue ceramic, and then up at the woman.

“Do you like him better?” the child finally asked, and then woman turned around.

Dean looked at her, and didn’t recognize her.

There was something wrong about her face; too much color, perhaps, like Dean had seen her before, but in another world – a place of desatured light and fixed, happy smiles.

“What is it, baby?”

“Sammy,” the child said, without looking up. “Do you like him better?”

 _Sammy_. The name tugged and tugged at Dean’s heart. He saw, once again, someone tall and strong – a man, really – writhing and crying, pinned to a wall.

He blinked.

“Dean, sweetie, I don’t. I love him and I love you. I love you both the same.”

The child reached out, prodded the blue bowl, and all of a sudden his feelings shifted and poured into Dean and Dean could feel it, as bright as a fresh burn – how it had scared him to walk alone down the house’s cold corridors after a nightmare, his naked feet making no noise; how it had scorched to stop in front of the other room, Sammy’s room, how he’d heard his parents talk ( _Look at him – isn’t he perfect?_ ); how he’d realized, in a confused, childish way, that now Sammy was here, everything had changed.

And Dean felt it all again, deep and suffocating: the resentment. The jealousy.

He shook his head, passed a hand through his hair.

“You watch him when he’s asleep. You think _I_ ’m asleep, but I’m not.”

Dean found himself waiting for an answer, his gaze moving from the serious little boy to the blond woman, waiting, and hoping and –

“He needs me more, now, because he’s younger than you,” the woman said, slowly, sitting down in the other chair. “But I love you just the same as before, Dean. No, you know what? I love you _more_ ,” she added, dropping her voice, as if confiding a secret.

“How come?” the child said, unconsciously mimicking her whisper, and, again, Dean could feel the burst of hope and disbelief inside his own heart.

“Because I see how you _careful_ you are with your brother, Dean. You’re so, so _gentle_. Sometimes children are not so kind with their brothers and sisters – you remember how mean Matt was? Matt is a good kid, but he was really mean last week, right? The way he pulled Paula’s hair?”

It was a vague thing deep inside Dean’s brain. A playground. A black and white rocking horse. Someone shrieking.

The child nodded.

“But Dean, you’re always so good and it makes me love you even more. And Sammy loves you as well, you know? He only smiles at you – dad and I are a bit jealous.”

At that, the child seemed to melt a bit. His mouth tugged into a reluctant smile, and he looked up at his mother, then at the bowl.

“Why don’t you clean that while I check on Sammy?” the woman said; the child nodded, tipped the bowl a bit, passed a single fat finger through the white goo sticking to the borders.

Dean watched as the woman stood up, then bent down to kiss the top of the child’s head, murmuring something too low to be understood; he watched her walk out of the kitchen, and as she stepped over the threshold she seemed to take the entire room with her – the place stretched and changed and everything was in flames for the shortest time – Dean turned on himself, trying to find a way out – and then he found himself on someone’s lawn, kneeling on the grass, and when a man yelled, “Dean? _Dean_!” he turned his head and saw the child on his left, and his hair smelled of fire and ash but his arms were steady as he held a baby tight against his chest; Dean watched, unable to move, as a man he couldn’t remember ran over to them and picked up both children and disappeared, blending into the darkness around him.

“I don’t understand,” Dean said, still kneeling, his hands pressing down in the cold grass. “Castiel? What is this? Cas?”

There was no answer. The scenery changed again, and again, and again. It was the inside of a moving car, and it was dreary, cheap motel rooms, and it was, a couple of times, a place Dean thought he recognized – an enticing garden of broken cars and glints of metal pieces – but before he could be sure, the world had shuttered and changed again.

And then, just when Dean thought this wasn’t working at all, because forget about demons and Hell, he’d been high before and he could swear that – then something changed.

There was the child again. Dean could see he’d been crying; maybe for a long time. He was staring at an old television, the room growing darker and darker around him. And then a younger child – Dean hadn’t seen him at first, but as soon as he blundered into his vision, something cleared and unfolded inside his mind, because, yeah, so he remembered those jammies – Sam had refused to wear anything else for a goddamn _month_ –

Dean stared at the child – at _Sammy_ – as he wobbled closer to where a younger version of himself was sitting, unwanted and left behind. He watched himself react with a barely suppressed scoff – “What is it? You hungry?” – watched as Sammy simply climbed on the couch and raised his arms out, demanding to be held. And when he felt himself on the verge of crying, he wiped the tears away, impatiently, roughly, because he wasn’t a child, okay, and it didn’t matter about Dad being gone for three days, not anymore, and it didn’t matter about –

“Dad’s coming back, don’t worry.”

Dean turned away from the two children, taking in the room instead. Without even being aware of it, he checked the windowsills for salt, and then glanced beyond the glass, at what he could see of the parking lot through the tiny crack in the curtains. He knew, and he didn’t know how, that he’d been terrified of this place, because two men had fought in that parking lot, loud and brutal, and Sam wouldn’t stop crying and Dean knew there was a gun in Dad’s duffel and his mind had been spinning and spinning and _what happens if more people come, what happens if someone starts shooting, what happens if the police comes in here and finds us, what happens if – Sammy, please stop crying, Sammy, come on, Sammy –_

The place was quiet around him. The only noise? A _Daffy Duck_ thing, and the child’s quiet voice as he talked and talked about all the things Dad would bring back to them – gummy bears and Reese’s and chocolate chip cookies and bubble tape and “Sammy, I know Dad says you’re too young for bubble tape, but I’ll give you a piece of mine, just a small one, and –”

Dean placed his hands on his ears, tuned it out, and the room faded around him.

There was a car next – Dean found himself riding shotgun, next to a man who looked way too much like him, and he turned around instead, watching the children in the back seat.

“What did you do, Dean?” Sammy was saying, picking at a bandage on Dean’s arm.

Dean looked at that younger version of himself. That shirt the child was wearing – he remembered it. Bobby had gotten it for him –

( _Bobby?_

broken down cars and an old baseball Dean used to sleep with and the noise of sizzling bacon and a cabinet of glass bottles he wasn’t allowed to open and a rough, manly smell – sweat and motor oil and cheap cologne – and a beard scratching his skin as he got pulled in for a hug

 _Bobby_.)

– and he found he suddenly knew the year and the place – this was just outside of Brookfield, Illinois, 1989.

“Dean, what happened?”

A movement on his left – the man turning the radio up.

“ _Crowds are assembling in Berlin, Germany, where history is being –_ ”

“Dean –”

“Shut up. Nothing happened.”

“There’s _blood_.”

“You a doctor now?”

“– _calling it the end of an era, which, however, will likely come at great –_ ”

“Did someone beat you up in school? Is that why we’re leaving?”

“I’d like to see them _try_ ,” the child on the backseat said, and, for a split second, his eyes met Dean’s – green into green – and, again, Dean was overflooded with feelings not his (no longer his).

The ghost of an old woman, clawing at him. Bringing his hands up to protect his face, feeling a wave of sheer strength and cold malice crashing down on him, overwhelming him –

(“Shoot her, Dean! Come on, boy!”)

– the sudden flare of pain as he’d fallen out of the open window, landed on the concrete below.

“Does it hurt?” Sammy asked, after a long while, and ten–year–old Dean grabbed his brother’s head with his uninjured hand, passed it roughly through Sam’s hair –

– and Dean knew what that was like, found he was as familiar with the feel of Sam’s body as he was with his own. He’d held Sam and stitched him up and comforted him and slept against his back too many times to count. He’d stuck gum in his hair and held it back as Sam threw up, because, man, the kid couldn’t hold his liquor worth a _damn_. He’d tickled Sam to the death, and he’d tried very hard not to hurt him during their sparring lessons, to unfocus his eyes and let his resentment go every time Dad would point at Sam’s leg and say, _This is where you press down to break a bone_ , because Dean didn’t want that image inside his head – Sam’s body, broken and useless, bits of bone poking through the skin; he’d held on to Sam’s bony knee without really listening, relishing in the feeling under his hands – skin and bone and tendon, all vibrantly, miraculously alive – despite everything, that was (despite all the times Dean had fucked up).

And so Dean tried to hold on as memory after memory swirled around him – Sammy yelling at him, saying he didn’t love him at all and wanted out out OUT, and Sammy climbing into his bed because Dad was snoring too loud for either of them to actually sleep, Sammy doing his homework on some rickety motel table and Dean switching on the lamp for him because the idiot always, always forgot and how the hell could he even _see_? Sammy trying not to cry after a ghoul had broken his arm; Sammy very nearly biting through his lip as Dean stitched up his shoulder and made jokes and wouldn’t, couldn’t allow his own fingers to tremble against his brother’s skin, because Sammy was alive and the rest didn’t even matter. Dad very nearly hitting Sam, and Dean pushing him out of the way, yelling, _Just shut up, Sam, just don’t_ , and Sam pushing back at him afterwards, red–faced and furious, because _You always take his goddamn side, and Dean, goddammit_ – and Dean snarling at him, because let him have it – he’d been carrying his brother for sixteen years and he wasn’t about to stop now.

Dean stumbled back, his hands seeking bits and pieces of that distant pub as Sam’s tall, angry figure disappeared on a dusty road ( _Don’t bother calling._ ), his fingers closing on thin air, his chest heavy with pain and pride.

“I get it,” he said, over and over, because Sam was walking away and Dad hated them both and Bobby had never wanted them to hunt and Dean couldn’t go to him now because Bobby surely liked Sammy better, just like everybody else did, and they were fucking right, too, because Dean wasn’t – because Dean –

“I _get_ it, Cas. I remember. Get me out of here, get me –”

But the memories didn’t stop, and now Dean knew what was coming, how much _worse_ things were going to get. All there was of Sammy now – old messages played and replayed on a burner phone ( _I’m still at the library – Can you come get me? – Dean, can you pick up dinner? – You’re a goddamn_ jerk _, I just wanted you to know that_ ) and faint glimpses of someone who was so put together and happy as to not even be Dean’s brother at all – Dean never even got out of the car, he just watched Sam laughing into Jess’ hair as he hugged her and he watched as she hugged him back and he watched as they both disappeared in a group of friends, and then inside a bar, and then they were gone.

And Dean got it, and he remembered now – how he hadn’t said hello because Sam had told him not to call, and how he had a job anyway: a shifter he was scared as fuck to do alone, but Dad was down in New Mexico and there was no one else, and Dean was not a child, okay, not a _goddamn_ child –

Dean bent down until his forehead touched the wheel of the Impala, and tried to force it out – because he _knew_ who Sammy was, okay? _Jesus_. He knew it and he was dying because of it, because this is what love does to you: it stabs you and it rips you apart. Because he remembered now – all those times he’d let Sammy down – hell, all those times he’d punched Sammy, and it didn’t matter, it never did, if Sammy had punched him right back, if he’d hurt Dean more than Dean had hurt him, because that child in penguin jammies had turned into a goddamn _giant_ and he could totally take Dean in a fight, because Dean would never fight dirty, not against his kid brother, and Dean didn’t want to see the rest of it, because he knew what was coming next, and he just sat and sat and tried to tune it out – the laughter and the fights and those people calling his brother the Antichrist and pointing a loaded gun straight between his eyes – and then something inside Dean’s heart broke apart and shattered, because he wasn’t sitting in a car anymore – he was kneeling in the mud, and he was holding up Sam’s body, and Sam’s eyes were wide and unseeing and _God_ – Dean yelled and yelled – he shouted for Castiel, he shouted for Dad, he shouted for Alastair – and then Sam woke up and Dean let go and fell and twisted in mid–air, kicking against invisible walls –

There was noise and thunder and probably some of it was Dean’s voice and Dean’s tears – because he’d seen the demon, there and gone in an instant, and that old fear had come back – irrational now, of course, because he’d been to Hell already, because he was in Hell right _now_ , but that cold fist around his heart still wouldn’t go away – Dean was trapped, trapped inside Baby as that other Dean and Sam talked and argued and laughed together, and trapped in motel rooms and police stations – he opened door after door, wanting out out OUT, because he couldn’t bear it, he couldn’t –

 _Everyday it seems we’re wasting away_ , a new voice sang, and Dean’s mind turned inside out with fear, because he couldn’t –

“ _Cas_!” he yelled, and he opened the car door and tumbled on hard concrete, scratching his face and his arms, tearing a hole through his jeans, but it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t far enough, it –

_I’d drive all night just to go back home._

And then _Lilith_ was there, and Dean became almost incoherent with terror. He yelled at Sammy to get back, even though Sammy couldn’t hear him, and he pushed and pushed against the door, trying to keep it closed, trying to –

A flash of dark light, the smell of fire and ashes – a woman who wasn’t a woman at all – Dean had never seen anything like that, before or since, because even in Hell, demons were careful, and Dean could only tell Alastair wasn’t human because of how easy it was for him to hold Dean down, but the rest of him – his face and his lips and his hands –

( _Sic ‘im, boy._ )

And Alastair was nearby, had to be – angel or no angel, he would crash down on them both like an earthquake – he would turn Dean inside out, make him beg and scream –

“Dean!”

There was no meaning inside the word, because there was never any meaning inside that word – it was always just a string of unconnected, incoherent sounds, a way to call someone who was never good enough, who fucked it all up, who deserved what he got –

_Say that you love me. Say that you want this._

– Dean screamed, and the world fell apart at the hinges – it folded and refolded upon itself – black and red and black again – and now there was a cold presence bearing down on him – Dean inched back, his blind panic kicking up another notch, and watched as Sam stood in front of a blond man with a kind smile – he watched Sam’s hands closing into fists by his sides –

“Dean!”

Everything was pain, and nothing mattered anymore – not space, not time, not color or sound or life itself and _Cas get me out of here Cas where are you he’s going to get him, Sammy_

_Sammy don’t you say yes to him_

_Sam he’s_ lying _to you_

ice and snowy nights and white and cold cold _cold_

 _He’s watching me now, he was never supposed to watch_ me _, I don’t know how Sam can stand it, I don’t – you’re going to_ die _, you hear me? I’m going to fucking_ kill _you and you’re never –_

_Stand behind me, the one time I ask._

And this is too much – Dean looks back, and closes his eyes, but it doesn’t matter, it never matters, because there are faces staring down at him anyway – Sammy’s, cold and closed–off, and Bobby’s, flickering in and out of existence, and Lucifer’s and Cas’ and everyone is talking to him and they all need him to be something, to be brave and to be better and Dean can’t, because he never could, because he’s a crook and a criminal and a killer, always was, ever since that first time he pushed a blade into a monster’s belly and the smell of blood hit him like a solid wall – because Dean liked comics and he knew blood was red red red, but the smell – there was never any smell in the comics, and it was never mentioned, the rest of it – suddenly, Dean is nine again, pinned under the weight of a dead werewolf, a boy not much older than himself, and there are things getting on his hands and his face and Dean is going to throw up with the smell of it, loud and coppery and forbidden, because no one should know what killing is like and it doesn’t matter if Dad is here and laughing down at him, in joy and pride and “Well done, boy,” because the werewolf is still dead, and it’s still wrong, all of it, and Dean can’t breathe, and someone is still calling his name, _Come back to me_ , but there’s too much now, too much death and too much pain and Dean is stumbling around in the dark and then he slips and falls and falls

and

falls

down, there is no

safe place

in the world and

(“Cas!”)

then he lands, forcefully, brutally, and everything is quiet.


	17. December 24th, 9 pm

In the end, Sam gets a hug both by the waitress and the cook and they remind him they’re open after the 27th and that he should come in soon with Toni and Fitz. It’s obvious Sam’s been eating here often, and he’s so well–liked that everyone manages to say goodbye to Cas in the same enthusiastic manner, simply because he’s with Sam; even his staring and his weird mood and the fact his eyes occasionally shine pure white are forgotten.

As they exit the restaurant, Sam shoves the handmade package of _cantuccini_ he was given as a Christmas gift in the pocket of his jacket and breathes in the cold night air. He’s obviously itching to ask more about Cas’ mystery mission and working out ways he can persuade Cas to stay, but after a while, he sort of sighs and shakes the snow from his hair and seems to give up – for now.

“Hey, maybe you can help me with a translation?” he asks instead. “It’s about that witch I’m tracking – I’d ask Crowley, but I’d rather keep the number of favors I owe him down to a bare minimum. You know how he is – he never does anything for free.”

Cas hums in agreement as he suddenly realizes Crowley hasn’t asked for anything in exchange for passage into Hell. Is that because he knows Cas is not coming back? Or maybe because Cas not coming back is precisely his price, Cas thinks bitterly. After all, Crowley’s complicated feelings for Dean are apparent all around the demon’s face, in that half soul he has – as black and insubstantial as smoke, and yet most definitely there – and Dean has confirmed the rest. Cas remembers Dean’s slow, hesitant words as they’d sat together in the kitchen just after Dean had come back to himself, and he also remembers Dean’s disbelieving, happy rants about Crowley whispered against Cas’ naked back.

“Do you think he’ll be jealous?” he’d asked, mostly to himself. “Nah, he’d probably insist on a threesome or some shit,” he’d added, before Cas had even decided what to say to that.

“That’s not happening,” Cas had replied, a bit huffily. “I’m _not_ sharing you.”

He’d felt Dean’s sharp intake of breath on his own skin, had turned around, a bit fearfully.

“Unless – unless you _want_ me to?” he’d asked, hating himself for not getting it, for not understanding something that, he’d been sure of it, would have been clear as day to any human.

Dean had stared at him in the half darkness, his green eyes glimmering and full of unspoken things.

“You’re an idiot,” he’d said, after a few seconds, and Cas had tried to press the point, but Dean had effectively put an end to the discussion by moving on top of Cas and pinning him to the bed and swallowing his objections inside his own mouth. And Cas had let him have this, as he always did: the illusion of strength; the dream that they were, in fact, equal – two people sharing a bed, and nothing more – the mad idea they could have it all.

“Maybe I could help you find her,” Cas says, as he and Sam reach the ornate door of the Bevells’ palazzo.

He tries to step away from the memory, finds he’s sucked in again – if he ever thinks about it, Dean may very well assume pretending Cas is human is a self–serving exercise, but the reality is, Cas is just as unsettled by this in–between status of his. The reach and curse of immortality; the knowledge that, no matter how much he wants to, he’ll never feel things as deeply as a real person would.

As Sam knocks, Cas turns around to look at the beautiful piazza, now glowing softly, the streetlamps dimmed by the falling snow; and, of course, the first thing he sees are Sam’s footprints, harsh and black against the white pavement.

They form a lonely, private path, because they stand alone – Cas’ are nowhere to be seen.

_I’m a lot like people_ , he’d once said, and the witch had laughed. 

_Keep telling yourself that, dear_ , she's replied.

And she hadn’t been wrong.

“I don’t think so,” Sam says, adjusting his scarf against the cold. “I told you, she seems to be warded against – oh, hello.”

The concierge has appeared on the threshold. He almost smiles and nods at Sam, then half bows to Cas before remembering himself – remembering Cas had insisted he wanted to be treated normally – and ushers them inside.

“Should I ring for a hot beverage?” he asks, taking Sam’s coat despite Sam’s protestations. “Tea? Coffee? Or perhaps a _digestivo_?”

“No, thank you. Listen, is my brother here?”

The concierge shakes his head, and Sam glances at Cas.

_You don’t think he’s – gone?_ his eyes are saying, and Cas frowns.

_No_ , he signals back. _Definitely not._

Sam sort of exhales, and then he gently extricates himself from the concierge’s solicitousness and disappears towards his study.

Cas follows him upstairs, and he tries to ignore the stubborn echo coming closer and closer. He wonders for a second if he should go and find Dean right now, in fact – what if he’s taken before he can see Dean again? before he can say goodbye to him? – and then the truth hits him.

He has no way to say goodbye to Dean. No words that could ever convey his feelings fully, and nothing Dean would accept. No, whatever happened between them, Dean would try to come after him – would try to prevent the whole thing from happening, and Cas can’t allow it.

Of course, it had taken him _years_ to understand it properly – after they’d first met, Cas would come down and look at Dean as he slept, wondering what could ever happen between them to push him to sacrifice everything for this man. And next – next he’d fought. He’d fought his brothers, and the archangels, and the Leviathans, and the Darkness herself. And that knowledge (that promise) had slipped further and further back inside his mind.

Cas had never forgotten it, though.

(His first impression of Hell? The sudden shock of malice and sin and lack of divine mercy weighing down on every inch of his being – the flickering flames – the man he’d been sent to save, fighting against a demon, seemingly willing to scream his way out – and, right in front of him, someone who was both himself and not himself. His own Grace, but _different_ , somehow: tainted with humanity and trapped in something that was not quite a vessel.)

“I think it’s Georgian,” Sam says, from one floor above him, “which would make sense, I guess.”

Cas steps out of the memory, continues to move upstairs, his hand tracing the handrail (the cold metal against his fingers grounding him, bringing him back).

“Why do you say that?” he asks as he enters the room, and he wonders if he’s lost parts of the conversation.

Sam doesn’t look up. He’s behind his messy desk, and he’s moving documents here and there, presumably looking for the text he wants Cas to translate.

“Oh, you know. The Navajo principle?”

Cas takes another step forward and frowns.

This room is very, very _full_. Not only of books and instruments, but of souls. Imprints of them, of course. The actual souls are long gone.

“The Navajo principle?” he repeats.

“Us using Navajo speakers to communicate important messages during World War 2,” Sam says, and then he finds the correct sheet of paper and makes a triumphant sound. “I mean, even if the Nazis had identified the language, there was no way they could have found anyone who knew it. And this witch is trying so hard – I think she’s going for the same thing. This is definitely a language it wouldn’t be easy to find a translator for. But, see the rounded letters here – I think it’s Caucasian. Probably Georgian.”

Cas takes the paper, looks at it.

“Sixteenth century Georgian,” he confirms, and Sam beams.

“I _knew_ it! What does it say?”

“It’s a letter,” Cas says, slowly, “to one of her sisters. They want to – Sam, how did you get this?”

Sam looks away.

“Three hunters went after this other witch in Ferrara,” he says, somberly. “Two of them died, and the third managed to grab her purse before she turned into a moth and disappeared.”

Cas waits.

“I was the one to send them out. Well, not me – I don’t have that kind of authority – but Toni and the others, they acted on my information. And now –”

“You can’t blame yourself. If you hadn’t captured this –”

“What does it say?”

“The spell they’re planning,” Cas says, tearing himself away from the memories flashing in front of Sam’s eyes (two men, father and son, with identical brown eyes and easy, welcoming smiles) and looking at the letter again, “would cause untold destruction.”

“Untold destruction?” Sam asks, with a hint of annoyance.

Cas almost rolls his eyes, then he realizes he learned that from Dean, tightens his hands on the paper.

“Florence would be razed to the ground,” he says, looking up, and shifting to that flat voice he uses when he wants to hide sarcasm. “Thousands would die. Even the countryside would probably remain poisoned for decades – not a single tree would bloom or bear fruit for years to come.”

Sam swallows.

“Okay, that’s clearer. How do we stop them?”

“It’s too late,” Cas says, scanning the document. “What they’re planning – it’s been in the works for months. Years, perhaps.”

“There _must_ be a way!”

“There _is_ a way: get everyone out.”

“Yeah? And _how_?” Sam says, walking back to his desk, moving books around.

“Sam, I don’t see any alternative.”

“What about Crowley? Hell, what about _God_?”

Sam seems to regret his outburst at once, but the thing remains unsaid between them. The fact God was there and watching all that time – the fact he never lifted a finger to help, preferring to toss them, again and again, on a bloody battlefield instead –

Cas clenches his jaw.

“I can see you’re unhappy, but Sam – short of a magic snuffer of some kind, I’m afraid I –”

“A magic _snuffer_ – that’s it!”

“That’s what?”

Sam is looking so dementedly excited that Cas is worried for a second he’s been affected by all the ancient feelings flying around the room and impregnating the walls (lovers and artists and a child kept in isolation and a man who’d killed himself). He watches, takes a step back when Sam almost jumps over his desk and crosses the room in big, fast strides until he’s reached the rather ugly portrait hanging directly behind Cas.

“We _do_ have a magic snuffer,” Sam smiles. “It’s a bit tricky to activate, and it only covers the city, but I’m sure it’d work for this – okay, what was the combination again?”

It all happens very quickly. Sam passes his hands on the frame, his fingers hesitating on the decorative studs. He closes his eyes, almost listening for something. And then he opens them again, presses down, very firmly, on four studs at once – and a large portion of the wall in front of him swings back to reveal a hidden chamber.

“Isn’t this place the coolest thing ever?” Sam beams, stepping through the passage. “Only last week we found a talking armor. Fitz wasn’t enthusiastic, but, then again, the thing almost broke his arm, so.”

Ignoring a deep sense of misgiving, Cas follows him through – and as soon as he steps over the threshold, he’s engulfed in golden flames – he hears Sam cry out as he twists on himself, trying to escape the sudden, searing pain.


	18. mooЯ ǫniʜƚɒɘɿᙠ

Dean feels his head crack against a concrete floor, and his hands move up to check for blood before he even opens his eyes, because that’s how he was trained, and he’s a good soldier, if nothing else.

His fingers are dry, though, and his head’s okay, and whatever this place is around him, it’s not Gus’ pub. It’s – a _kitchen_ , Dean thinks, bewildered, his heart dark and heavy inside his chest – a large, industrial kitchen with steel shelves full of food and bags of salt.

“I’m not sure how I feel about writing in your father’s diary,” a voice says, and it’s so immediately familiar Dean looks up, still cradling his head.

And the angle’s a bit awkward, and the clothes all different, but there is Cas, immediately recognizable with his bed hair and his sharp profile and his gently bewildered expression.

“Cas?” Dean calls; and then he sits up, a slow, stilted movement, because yeah, Cas had said this would hurt, but Dean still didn’t brace himself hard enough, and those memories of Sam – and now his worry for his brother is bruising and bruising every inch of his body, because Sam is out there in a world of demons and monsters and Dean can’t –

But Cas had told him Sam’s okay.

Dean breathes out.

“Yeah, that thing hasn’t been Dad’s journal for a while,” a second voice says, and Dean straightens up and winces and what the _hell_?

There’s a man washing the dishes, and even if Dean can’t see his face he just _knows_ – he’s not out of his own mind yet, because this is himself, and –

And then the man looks at Cas over his shoulder, and he sort of smiles and Dean frowns, forgetting his fear and worry, because – _I’m alive – Jesus, I’m_ old _– Do I really look like that when I smile?_ – because so he makes it out of Hell, and that’s bound to be a good thing, right, in a general, messed–up scale of measuring what good things are; but that’s all he has, and so Dean shakes his head, trying to clear it, and then he slowly gets to his feet.

“I mean, the original one – yeah. But that book right there – it’s _my_ diary, you know. Or, well – _our_ diary. Whatever.”

Dean can hear it well enough – the careless voice, the question hidden underneath; he frowns at the back of the man’s head, and then he turns and looks at Cas, sees him hesitate, the pen still a full inch from the page.

“If you’d rather not keep sensitive data on your laptop because of Toni’s team ‘pirating’ it,” Cas starts, with a barely there gesture of his fingers over what is a wrong word, anyway, “you can simply tell me what you want to remember about the case and I’ll remember it for you.”

 _I’m an angel of the Lord_ , Cas says in Dean’s mind, but it’s hard to reconcile that momentous statement with the Cas Dean’s left behind in a pub – a shy man in unassuming black clothes – and it’s even harder to accept Cas’ true nature right now, when Cas’ sitting down primly at some table, an empty mug by his side, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Dean catches a hint of movement from the corner of his eye, sees the other Dean fiddle with the taps, then shake his head.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re awesome. Don’t brag,” the man says, after a few seconds, and Cas looks up.

“That water is too hot,” he points out, mildly disapproving. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

“So you’ll patch me up. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Dean, I know you’re upset about Sam not being here –”

“This is not about _Sam_ , alright? _Jesus_.”

Slowly, Dean gets out of the way – taking a step back, then another, until his back hits a wall. He can see the entire room, now, and the corridor outside it – a naked, severe thing lighting up in dark blues and faded whites – and despite the alien feel of the place – the lack of windows or even comfortable furniture, the no–nonsense military rations still in a crate by the shelves, the weapons half hidden strategically all around the room (two knives, a gun and an axe that Dean can see, placed exactly where _he_ would place them, because, well), the scene is so domestic that a different kind of feeling makes Dean’s heart ache all over again.

And also, for the first time since he fell in this godforsaken dream, Dean can feel Cas’ presence clearly and strongly. He still isn’t able to see him, but he knows now that Cas’ hand is still on his shoulder – can feel the comforting warmth of it – and as he watches the two men in front of him, that familiarity he’d first felt when Cas had walked into his dorm comes rushing back. Dean looks at this Cas, at the way he’s sitting at the table, his back very straight, the jacket of his navy suit a bit crumpled around the wrists, and feels it all over again – the certainty that he should not let go – that whatever happened in the past, or whatever will happen in the future, because time’s confusing as fuck and Dean’s not about to understand any of it, this, right here, is how things are supposed to be – the two of them, together. Dean closes his hands into fists as he tries to figure out if this gloomy grey room is a memory or a dream of simply something that will never come to pass, because he remembers, in a corner of his mind where fear is still pooling, deep and murky, that this is not reality, or not _his_ reality, anyway; that he’s dead, that he’s in Hell and he’s not getting out and all that he’s seen – yeah, so all those thing could be pieces of his future self, but also an illusion and a fever dream, a foolish hope, because Alastair will come get him, because Alastair promised he would, and next –

“And it’s not – never mind,” the other Dean says suddenly, the hot water now hiding his face in a mist of steam.

“It’s not what?”

A stretch of silence.

“Dean?”

Dean remains where he is, his back against the wall, barely daring to breathe, and then –

“I just – you know this is your home, right, Cas?”

The man doesn’t turn around, and there’s a steely line in his back that makes him suddenly forbidding, almost dangerous.

“Because we’re like brothers,” Cas answers, a bit hesitantly, after a while; he sounds unsure, and Dean breathes out, struggling to hold on to this reality around him as it slowly frays at the seams, the smell of Gus’ pub slithering in, calling him back.

“We’re not ‘like’ anything, man. What I told you – I _meant_ it.”

“I know.”

“So this is it,” the other Dean adds, after an even longer pause. “Are you happy? With – you know – with being here, with us living – like this? With –”

He never finishes the thought.

“I don’t know what you’re asking me, Dean,” Cas says, very softly, and he makes half a movement, as though to stand up, but then the man at the sink turns around, and there’s something so broken around his eyes and mouth both Dean and Cas stop and stare.

“It’s okay if you don’t,” the man says, and then he tries to laugh – a sad, stilted sound. “I know you don’t. I’m an idiot. And you’re – you’re _fine_. As you are, I mean.”

Then man looks down, and Dean finds he pities him, because he remembers what that’s like – talking to Cas. How he’d wished to say things himself – stupid things, and nothing as complicated as what this Dean’s trying to get out of his heart and lungs – how he’d still failed. He splays his hands open on the cold wall behind him, thinks about the beach, about Cas’ unnaturally still form at his side – he thinks about glancing at that sharp, gentle profile and then looking away again.

“I don’t know _what_ I am, exactly, but it certainly is not _fine_ ,” Castiel says, placing the unopened pen in the middle of the journal, then straightening it so it lines up with Dean’s own irregular scrawling. “Sometimes I think I don’t want to be an angel anymore, but I don’t know how to be human, either. I tried both, and failed. I’m not much of anything, I guess –”

“Cas –”

“– but whatever I am, whatever I have, is yours. And that makes me happy. That you’d want that. I thought you knew.”

Suddenly, Dean has a flash of that other Cas, standing right in front of him – he looks eerily beautiful, with his eyes bright blue and his head surrounded by a halo of white light, but something around his mouth – he’s gritting his teeth, and his hand is very heavy on Dean’s shoulder, and Dean finally understands what happened: Cas lost control, Cas never meant for him to access all of those painful memories, and he certainly never meant for him to see the rest of his life, the way Sam had looked at Lucifer, and those monsters with their heads full of teeth, and Dean’s skin and soul getting marked again, with something even more dangerous and life–changing and forever, and yet – and this, right here – Cas is trying to pull him back, but for the first time since he’s fallen into this dream, Dean doesn’t want to go back. He blinks at the angel, slowly, and he breathes in, then out, until the kitchen around him comes into focus again, solid and real.

“God, you _are_ fine,” the other Dean says again; he’s turned away from the sink now, and his soapy red hands are dripping all over the floor. “Cas, you’re –”

He starts to step forward, slowly, hesitantly, as if expecting to be stopped, and when that doesn’t happen, when Cas just sits there and watches him come closer and closer, the other Dean seems to recover some courage, or some – determination – Dean can see it in his clenched jaw, in that something around his eyes, now moving to Cas’ mouth, and then back up again – he knows that means _Right, I’m doing this and if it kills me, whatever_ , because he knows himself, deeply and intimately, and he can almost smell the fear and the self–loathing and the guilt, but he doesn’t move, he doesn’t try to intervene; and then the man finally stops in front of Cas, kneels in front of him, reaches up, oh so slowly, to cup his jaw.

“I’m not asking you for anything, okay?” he says, a bit roughly. “I’m just – Cas –”

For an incredibly long second, nothing happens – and then Cas puts his own hand on top of this other Dean’s, this man who’s even more broken and more of a mess than Dean is now, and Dean knows Cas can see it, can see inside Dean’s heart right now as easily as he’d been able to understand his fears and nightmares in Hell, and despite this – _despite this_ – Cas tilts his head forward, only just, and that Dean – older and sadder and battle–scarred, the hilt of a knife only just visible at the hem of his jeans – trembles as he reaches up and brushes his lips against Cas’.

And as Dean watches the two of them kissing, the room finally grows darker, fades around the corners as if unspooled and watered down, and then Dean breathes in and he’s back, Cas standing right in front of him, his face pale but determined, his eyes still glowing bright blue.

Dean’s heart’s too big inside his chest; he’s terrified and elated and vindicated all at once, because he’s known, hasn’t he, that he’s not crazy. He’s not a chick, and he’s not even a love at first sight kinda guy, and he can’t remember ever falling for anyone, not like this – and now he’s got his memories back, so he knows that for sure – and yet this thing Cas uncovered inside him – something that bodily forced Dean to stand up straight and look at the guy and wish he could – well – that’s fucking _justified_. It’s fucking _right_. They belong with each other and they belong to each other, Dean’s sure of it now, because as Cas’ eyes turn back to their usual stormy blue and he lets his hand fall from Dean’s shoulder, Dean can see it in the way the guy looks at him – how that last memory was a memory and a mistake, because it slipped through and it wasn’t Dean’s memory at all, but Cas’. And Cas didn’t meant to share it, that much is clear from the closed–off, pained turn of his mouth. It was an accident, and Dean just stands there, wondering – he knows everything now, he knows about his deadbeat father and his dead mother and his pain–in–the–ass brother and he knows about his own sorry, miserable life and he understands what he hadn’t before: that he’s a hunter and he’s always been one and he shouldn’t _trust_ Cas, because Cas is not human. That his job, right now, is to get the fuck out of this place and go back to Sam, and never mind –

(And yet.)

“Are you okay?” Dean asks, his voice breaking, only slightly, on the last word, as though from lack of use.

“I should be the one asking you that,” Cas replies, seriously, and Dean shakes his head and pats Cas’ arm, in a brief, perfunctory gesture, when he realizes Cas is about to apologize.

And the expression on Cas’ face – Dean clears his throat, looks around, as if taking the scope of the place, trying to plan an escape route of some kind, but, of course, that’s completely useless. He has not idea how to get out: Cas does.

He thinks about that kitchen again; about how easy that had been, how the whole thing had looked like something that happened every night, and not – how it had been like.

Having a home.

“Uh, did that,” he starts, and he finds, to his horror, that he’s now more than wary: he’s _embarrassed_ , okay, because he can still remember his life here, and how it had been for that other guy – that carefree student, his skin tanned and freckled by the Italian sun – yeah, Dean can sort of still see it, all of it, as if from the wrong end of a telescope – those long lessons in overcrowded rooms and Charlie smirking at him and Gus beating his ass at pool and those guys he’d kissed in dark streets, happily and unashamedly – and maybe that’s something the other guy could do, but he’s Dean Winchester now, and he knows Dad’s hit him for far less, and he knows Dad was right, too, because love is a weakness and guys are dangerous and this guy right here, looking steadily back at him, this guy –

“It will,” Cas says, levelly, because of course he knows what Dean is talking about.

 _God, I_ want _you_ , Dean thinks. _I want you_ now.

“Yeah? No offense, but I don’t see that,” he says, the words just tumbling out in fear and shame and superstitious belief that he’s never getting out, he’s never going to have anything that good, because he doesn’t _deserve_ it – he didn’t in the first place, and now – and nothing changes on Cas’ face, not exactly, but Dean still wishes he could take it back; he thinks about that room again, about himself and the way he’d looked at Cas, as if he was life and death and the fucking air you need to breathe and everything in between – something Dean couldn’t allow himself to have, and something he couldn’t live without.

“We should go,” Cas says, after a moment. And then, behind him, the bottles of expensive liquors start blowing up, one after the other, as if hit by a sniper, and Dean doesn’t even think – he throws himself at Cas, trips him down to the floor, and covers both their heads as a voice laughs and laughs inside his ears.

 _Dean, where are you?_ Alastair says. _Dean, I want to play._


	19. December 24th, 10 pm

“Cas!”

The thing is vicious – it goes directly for his flesh and bones, it wants to hurt him and skin him into the ground. Cas can feel the malice coming from it – the _hatred_ – his whole body is on fire, and the pain is deeper than anything he’s ever –

And then, his other self – not this body Dean has loved and worshipped in the quiet of their nights together, but the being God created out of darkness and stars – his other self reacts and lashes back, his burning blue Grace crashing down on the pathetic golden flames as if they’d never been there at all.

Humans are creative. Cas will give them that. But nothing on this Earth, not even magic, can truly be the equal of a seraph.

“Cas?”

Cas breathes out, turns his eyes on Sam, who’s slowly picking himself off the floor. He still has his eyes closed, and as he gets to his feet he places his right hand over them, as if seeking another layer of protection.

This small sign of the vast gulf between them tears a hole inside Cas’ heart – something much more painful than any physical attack could manage. He remembers Dean doing the same thing, over and over – as they were fighting together against monsters, and that first time he’d seen Cas, and even – Cas wants to smile, but the memory is denting his very soul – the first time they’d shared a bed. Dean had kissed him and touched him and whispered things at him – dirty suggestions at first, then endearments, and finally wordless little sounds – and when he’d realized the moment was close, he’d brought one hand up to shield his eyes, hadn’t moved it away until he’d felt the wet mess of Cas’ come half sliding off his own stomach.

“What are you doing?” Cas had asked, a bit breathless, and he’d peered down at this human creature in fascination – Dean had plainly expected sex with Cas would hurt him in some way, and yet he’d gone ahead anyway, asking nothing for himself, because, as he’d murmured only that night in his most rational moments, he’d wanted Cas to know everything; to feel all the pleasure he possibly could.

Dean had blushed, his freckles standing out very clearly against his skin.

“I – uh – I thought you might – you know,” he’d said, vaguely, his own penis deflating a bit against Cas’ thigh under the weight of his embarrassment. “Light up.”

“That would hurt you,” Cas had replied, confused.

“Yeah, that’s not – was it good?”

There had been so much understated anxiety in the question – they’d kissed before, and hugged, and even looked up at the stars from the roof of the Bunker, Dean asking for names and facts about them and then making fun of it all – but this had been the first time anything truly physical had happened between them. Something that, perhaps, could not be taken back, or written off as not meaning anything and drunkenness and just fooling around. They were not doing this in the grimy toilet of a truck drivers’ bar, or in a dingy motel room. They were doing it in their home – in Dean’s room, in fact, because Dean had come to look for him after dinner and he’d hesitated on the threshold before asking Cas, in short, unfinished sentences, how Cas would feel about – maybe – spending the night.

And as Cas had looked down at the overflowing feelings on Dean’s face, he’d known: this was the moment Dean – for one reason or the other – had expected Cas to walk away. To say the experience wasn’t all that good, perhaps; that he’d never wanted Dean, not in this way, and when he’d accepted to come in Dean’s room he’d never expected –

Cas had lowered himself on Dean’s body, creating a squishy, wet mess between them, and then he’d kissed that expression right off Dean’s face.

“I can light up if you want,” he’d murmured a bit later, licking and biting at Dean’s neck, at the hard muscles on his chest. “But I’d rather not to. I never want to hurt you again, Dean. I love you.”

With all that had passed between them, that had been the first time Cas had said the words clearly, and Dean had been overwhelmed – he’d opened and closed his mouth, then tried to get Cas to kiss him again, but Cas had doggedly continued his exploration of Dean’s body. He’d known, because Dean’s soul had been a colourful, heavy mess around them both, that Dean couldn’t deal with this new information – not at the moment. And so Cas had chosen the only reasonable option: he’d shifted even lower and taken Dean into his mouth until all the colors around them had blended into a joyous, wordless red and Dean’s exhilaration had lit up the whole room.

“I’m okay,” Cas says. “You can look now.”

Sam takes his hand off his face, opens his eyes. His bangs are noticeably shorter, and his eyebrows have been singed right off. He’s worried, unhappy, guilty (purples and greys and the impression of sharp angles).

“Shit, I’m sorry – I totally forgot –” he says, his gaze moving from Cas’ face to what is left of Cas’ burned–off clothes.

“Was that a Prometheus spell?” Cas asks in mild curiosity, examining the tattered remains of his sleeve.

“Yes, it’s supposed to – well, the Bevells found it was not wise to allow a supernatural creature access to this room. It’s supposed to leave a burning mark so whoever tries to get inside can be identified later on,” adds Sam, apologetically, “but I guess you’re too powerful for it to work as it should.”

Cas abandons his investigation of his shirt; he bends his knee instead, checks his sensible black shoe. Both he and Sam watch as the sole separates itself and falls to the floor with a pitiful sound.

“Oh, it worked. This is no longer a vessel, after all,” Cas says, shrugging off what is left of the shoe. “It’s – part of me, so to speak, and not something I can repair without investing considerable time and effort.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Sam says again. “I’m so sorry. You’re sure you’re not hurt?”

“I’ll live,” Cas says, dryly. “Sam, there are less than two hours left to midnight – where is the device you mentioned?”

“Well – it should actually be pretty straightforward, if I remember it right – hang on –”

Cas remains inside the study and watches as Sam moves out of sight for a second, and then returns carrying a wooden box. He balances it on top of a stone bust wearing an overly complicated wig and turns back to the wall, seemingly counting the bricks.

“It should be – right here,” he says, pressing down on one.

Cas can feel the power radiating from whatever is inside the wall, and his angel blade slides out of his ruined sleeve without him even noticing.

There is a slight noise. Sam takes a step back as the brick comes apart in his hands, revealing a dark hole. The place is barely large enough for Sam’s hand to get inside, and all Cas can see is a glimmer of silver – an enchanted jewel, perhaps, or some kind of instrument. There are several ways to execute what Sam is proposing, and Cas hopes what the Bevells took such care to hide is actually safe. Balthazar had always maintained that fire in London had been caused precisely by such a contraption – insisted there was nothing he could have done to prevent it.

Although, after finding out the lengths Balthazar would go to to get rid of a single song, Cas had found himself wondering what, exactly, had been prevented by the fire.

(He’d always known, after all, that Balthazar was no big fan of Shirley.)

“Be careful,” he says. “The sense of power radiating off that is almost overwhelming.”

Sam turns to look at him, smiles – though it comes off all wrong in his current eyebrowless state.

“Don’t worry. Like I said, this is surprisingly uncomplicated. They did all the hard work already when they put it in.”

And so Cas stands still and watches as Sam starts chanting, and then waves a copper knife around, and cuts both his arms with it – deep, unforgiving things that have Cas wince in sympathy – lets the blood drop over whatever is in the wall, chants again.

When he’s finally silent, Cas knows at once the spell has worked. He can feel the weight of it, stretching far and wide across the city, like a smileless black umbrella.

His own power, of course, is unaffected.

Sam seems to feel it as well. He shudders slightly, trembles, even, as he cleans the ceremonial knife and puts the room to right. After a couple of minutes, he disappears from Cas’ sight again, comes back with two white pieces of gauze in his hands, already blotting red where they fall against his injured skin.

“I didn’t expect it to be so – _intense_ ,” he breathes out, his voice much lower than usual; and then he steps out of the secret room and closes the hidden door very firmly behind him.

“I can fix that,” Cas says, but Sam brushes him off.

“‘Tis but a scratch,” he says, and Cas frowns.

“Well, that’s no reason to – wait – are you alluding to a movie?”

“Yes. And, seriously – it’s _fine_. I don’t want you wasting your mojo on this.”

Cas looks at Sam, unconvinced, as Sam bandages his left forearm and then, a bit gingerly, his right.

“See? All better. I think I’ll go after that witch in the morning, though. I still have to wait for Crowley to find her, and I was hoping,” he says, his gaze shifting towards the dark window, as if he could see his brother through the checkered glass, “that Dean would like to join me.”

“Sam, I –”

“But that’s for later. What about you?”

Again, Sam’s soul flickers and shifts as Sam decides to postpone that conversation. He surely hopes, because that’s the kind of person he is, to include Dean in it – to figure out a solution together, to avoid more secrets between them – and Cas doesn’t have the heart to set him straight.

“What about me?” he asks, perplexed, and Sam just gestures.

“I’d offer you something of mine, but unless you can magically adjust clothes, everything I have is about two sizes too big.”

“I can wait. I should be able to mend the damage in,” Cas brings his arm up, sniffs at the torn fabric of his shirt, “twelve hours or so?”

“No way. Dude, you’re a guest and all. You’re _not_ going to sit there looking like a hobo.”

“It doesn’t bother me.”

“Not the point, Cas. Come on, let’s find you something in Dean’s stuff.”

“That doesn’t seem appropriate.”

“Trust me, if there’s one thing Dean’s not fussy about, it's clothes,” Sam says, in what is blatantly an untrue statement.

As he heads out the door, Cas suddenly feels it, as deep and sharp as a blade through a lung: this, here and now, is how it happens, because God may be capricious and shallow, but he’s a fine writer and knows how to leave his clues behind. And just as he’d once written a warning on the wall of a kingly hall, he’s now left a message on the front of an old black t–shirt: the stark, unmistakable image of a zeppelin about to crash and burn into the ground.


	20. ɘɿǫO ɘʜT

Dean keeps his head down and his hands fisted in Cas’ hair and shirt as the pub explodes around them, shards of glass and splinters of wood flying over them, black smoke pouring in from the broken windows.

“Cas,” Dean yells, right into Cas’ ear, “Cas, how do we get out?”

And then Cas stands up, sliding out from under Dean’s body without effort, and Dean remembers how stupid it was to pin him to the floor in the first place, because Cas – there are no wings now, and the man in front of him is as human as Dean’s ever seen him, but there’s still a kind of – self–assuredness to his movements saying, loud and clear, that Cas was bred for battle; that he can’t be wounded, that he’s unafraid of death because he doesn’t get what death is, doesn’t get, perhaps, what death can take away from you.

Dean licks his lip, an unconscious, nervous gesture, and then he scrambles up to his feet next to Cas, watches in terrified fascination as Cas moves a hand through the air and the wind howling and twisting inside the pub and tearing it to shreds dies down, disappears.

“Let’s go,” Cas says, and he moves to the side, blasts the half–broken door right off its hinges.

Dean follows him.

Outside, everything is chaos. The world that Dean lived in for what had felt one year of his life is folding upon itself and disappearing.

Cas stops, seems to almost sniff the air.

“This way,” he decides, after a couple of seconds, and even as they hurry out of Gus’ pub, the building starts to crack, a piece of brickwork missing them by inches.

Dean runs after Cas without hesitation, and part of him revels in how _easy_ this is – because he’s not some kid, some nerd planning engines and calculating his life away – he’s Dean fucking Winchester, and this is a hunt, and that’s something he knows how to do.

(The _only_ thing he knows how to do.)

As his Converse hit the pavement noiselessly, Dean is on the lookout for potential threats, but he can’t help thinking of Sam. Now that he remembers his brother, he misses him like he would a limb. The moment of his own death – the door busting right open, and Lilith’ light, chilling words ( _Sic ‘im, boy._ ) – is replaying over and over in the forefront of his mind, and Sam’s cries of pain and horror are hurting him more than anything Alastair ever did to him.

In front of him, Cas takes a sharp turn to the left, and they find themselves back in the beautiful Florentine square, now completely empty. There is barely enough light to see where they’re going, but the destruction is still apparent – the huge tower of the palace has fallen on top of the fountain below, and the old clock, easily as wide as Dean is tall, blinks up pitifully at him as he runs past. If its time is still right, it’s now five in the morning. Dean wonders what Cas meant when he said he had to go soon, and how they will ever get out. Cas may be right about free will and whatever, but Dean knows enough about demons to know they don’t like to lose their prey.

In front of him, Cas jumps lightly over a huge pile of rubble Dean has no choice but to go around, and when he finds the narrow passage again, for a second he worries he’s lost the man.

“Cas?” he calls, and then he holds his hands over his ears as Alastair’s voice presses down on his skin once again.

 _No one_ wants _you. No one_ loves _you. You are not getting out._

Dean yells to drown it out, a pure noise of pain and rage – and then he looks up at the empty sky.

“Bite me, you hear me? You bastard – I’ll fucking _kill_ you,” he shouts, and Alastair laughs at him in some place where Dean can’t reach him.

“Dean? _Dean_!”

Cas is standing on the wall marking the bank of the river, his silhouette clearly delineated against the [darkness](http://awed-frog.tumblr.com/post/151985446252/the-way-out-is-a-dcbb-2016-fic-it-was-supposed-to) behind him.

# 

Dean growls and runs towards him, finally vaulting up on the marble wall and almost slipping down on the other side.

“What do we do?” he asks, urgently; and when he looks back from where they’ve come, he thinks he can see, only just, dark shapes moving among the ruined buildings.

“We jump,” Cas says, seriously. “It’s the only way to the bridge.”

“What, _that_ bridge?” Dean asks, pointing at the thing – and for a second, the absurdity of it all is almost too much – because he _knows_ the place: he and Charlie used to stroll through the crowds there; they usually made fun of the tourists, but once they pretended to be a couple to annoy one of the self–important, overpriced jewelry seller peacocking his wares behind thick glass.

“My husband would like to know,” Charlie had said, haughtily, “if any cock rings are available.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Golden cock rings. Possibly encrusted with diamonds,” Charlie had insisted, and, of course, they’d had to run away from the man’s apoplectic rage, his threats to call the cops.

“That’s not real,” Cas says, raising his voice so Dean will be able to hear him over the sound of the city crashing to the ground. “Or, it isn’t here. The _ponte vecchio_ in Florence is, of course, a marvel, and –”

“What bridge, then? Where is it?” Dean calls, and Cas seems to remember where they are.

“It’s in the water,” he says, pointing at the black river. “Just – trust your instincts, okay?”

Dean looks down. He can swim, and well, even, but he doesn’t like the idea of jumping down there with a whole army of demons at his heels.

“Remember Sam,” Cas says. “Remember why you want to get out.”

“Are you coming with me?” Dean says, trying to hide his fear, and he sees, very clearly, a flash of regret on Cas face.

“Of course,” the angel says, his hand moving towards Dean’s and not quite touching it.

Dean clenches his jaw.

“Cas, what I said – I didn’t mean –” he starts, and finds he doesn’t know how to finish the sentence.

It was supposed to be something about how hard it all is – how Dad had raised him to be a man and kill monsters, how that evening in a distant kitchen had somehow shattered both of those things beyond repair; how Dean doesn’t, in fact, care at all.

Cas looks straight at him, his eyes very soft.

“Dean – there is no more time,” he says, a bit sadly, and Dean turns around, sees the shadows moving in the rubble are taking shape and substance – they’re dogs now, big and vicious, glinting red eyes focused straight on them.

“Just – be safe, okay?” Dean says, closing his fingers on Cas’ naked arm, his thumb tracing a light pattern on the inside of Cas’ elbow. Then he takes a deep breath, balances his knees, and jumps headfirst into the river.

The impact of the freezing cold water punches the air right out of Dean’s lungs. It’s like jumping into solid darkness – Dean can’t see or hear anything. He’s got no idea as to how he’s supposed to reach this second bridge – _Trust your instincts_ , what a shitty thing to say.

Without knowing what else to do – he can barely see his own hands, let alone Cas – Dean starts to swim downwards, taking big, sweeping breaststrokes, his lungs already burning up.

Pushing back his fear, Dean moves further and further down, spreading his arms wide, trying to find the river bed; he swims and swims, his eardrums a symphony of pain and _stop_ and _go back_ , and sometimes he places a hand right in front of his face just to see if it’s still there, if he actually exists, because the longer he’s in the fucking water, the surer he is this is not a river at all, that it has no bottom, or that the goddamn thing is so far down Dean won’t make it, anyway. Panicking, Dean turns around, tries to swim back up – he’s too far gone to remember he’s dead already, and this is Hell, and his body can’t be hurt again, because it’s lying in a grave Sam dug for him – all he knows is that if he dies here, Sam will be left alone to face all of it – the monsters and demons that have been after them since they were children, and this new, nameless threat Cas hinted at without meaning to when he was healing Dean.

(A blond man, good–natured and happy and as dangerous as green poison, stretching back on Sam’s motel bed, smiling like someone who’s finally back home after a long, mildly unpleasant trip.)

And then, as his brother’s face flashes in front of Dean’s eyes – and Dean remembers it well, now – that hair Sam always grows a bit too long, and that spot on his jaw he so often misses when shaving, and the color of his eyes, blue turning into green turning into that _This is not funny, you jerk_ expression that flips Sam’s face upside down and Dean will always, always find endearing – then the world tilts, and Dean feels gravity pull him down, not up; he goes with it, because it doesn’t matter if they only just met or if they’ve been together for centuries of war and ruin: he trusts Cas with his life, and Cas said to trust his instincts, so Dean does.

He starts swimming again, his lungs a black, fiery mass inside his chest, and he knows he should hit the bottom of the river soon, and he knows he won’t, because that’s not where the river ends; because the illusion is what he left behind, a fake world now sealed and gone, and this is where he needs to go – home.

When his head breaks the surface of the water, Dean draws in a deep, shuddering breath before pushing his hair out of his eyes and looking around.

It’s still night, but this is a more – normal – night. The intense cold is gone, and the sky above him is shimmering with stars.

“Dean!”

Cas is waiting for him on the first step of a stairwell that’s emerging right from the water. When he sees Dean swimming closer, a smile splits his face and he kneels down, reaching out.

Dean grabs his hand, allows himself to be pulled to his feet.

“How are you not even wet?” he mutters, because he can’t say that other thing, that he’s happy as fuck to see Cas and that Cas came for him, because he’d been praying – for years and years he prayed, emptily at first, and then with desperate, raw conviction, for God to save him.

He prayed even if no one gets out of Hell, and he prayed almost believing there was nothing out there, anyway, because the world is unfair and unbalanced and there’s no such thing as angels. He prayed, most of all, knowing full well he didn’t deserve to be saved.

And yet, Cas had come for him.

“That was not water,” Cas says, distractedly; he touches Dean’s forehead and the next second, Dean finds his clothes are perfectly dry, and, more importantly, his lungs no longer feel like they’re about to explode.

“Thanks,” he says, and then it sorts of – gets away away from him, and –

_This is where you belong, Dean. With me. This is what you were born to do._

– without even stopping to think, Dean steps closer and hugs Cas. He’s not out yet, he can feel that – the weight of – of _sin_ , perhaps, as stupid as that sounds, and he knows this is not the real world, not yet; but the fact that angels are real – that Cas came down here to save him after all Dean’s done – after all the souls he’s maimed and broken –

“Dean,” Cas says, very softly, half in welcome, half in warning, and Dean hugs him tighter.

“That’s how it works, man,” he replies, trying to make it pass like a normal thing, like those hugs men give each other at funerals and after football matches and when they’re too drunk to stand up straight; those hugs even Dad wouldn’t have frowned upon. “That’s how people do it.”

And, of course, it’s something completely different; but Cas understands, and Dean feels his warm hands come up, close around his back, and he shudders in Cas’ shoulder.

_They’ve forgotten about you, Dean. Sam and Bobby. I wish you could see them – how happy they are now you’re gone – but you know that, right? Because you’re just like your dad – a useless drunk, a broken piece of shit nobody wants to have around. Aren’t you, boy?_

When Dean moves back, he brings his right hand up, cups Castiel’s cheek, briefly, perhaps too intimately; but Cas smiles under his touch.

“Come on,” Dean says, breaking the contact between them.

He looks up instead, and the thing is, he’s fully and completely himself now. He knows he’s been a hunter his whole life, and he’s got – well, not the upperhand, but some kind of advantage he didn’t have when he was just a nobody out to enjoy the Italian summer. He can feel it all in his gut, now, just like he did before – the danger they’re still in, and what his next move needs to be.

With a glance to Cas, Dean turns around and starts to move quickly up the old, spiraling staircase. They both go up and up, until they’re high over the water, when the stone steps finally open up and blossom into an old wooden [bridge](http://awed-frog.tumblr.com/post/151985849612/the-way-out-is-a-dcbb-2016-fic-it-was-supposed-to). It’s got a roof, and Dean knows this means they’ll lose what little light they have once they step under it, but there’s nothing else to be done.

# 

His hands contract as Dean almost reaches for a weapon before remembering he’s not carrying any, and then they close into fists as he takes the first step on the bridge.

And, yeah, he was right, but also – because even though the wooden roof blots out the starlight, a dozen smaller lights flare up instead – graceful round lanterns, hanging every twelve feet or so, swaying gently in the nonexistent breeze.

And by their light Dean can see something else.

There is a man in the middle of the bridge.

Dean can see his tailored clothes, and knows there is something familiar in the way the figure leans lazily against the carved wood, but the man’s face is in shadow, and Dean can’t quite – and he knows this must be Alastair, because that’s what Alastair always said in Dean’s nightmares – that he would never, ever let Dean leave, that he would – but something’s still wrong.

Cas puts a hand on his shoulder, both encouragement and warning, and Dean walks forward: he’s got no choice. He needs to get back, and that means crossing this bridge, and if he has to fight his way through, fucking bring it _on_ , because it doesn’t matter about what _he_ wants, it never did, and those things they did to him in Hell – he knows how to hurt demons, now, how to _truly_ hurt them, and he hates them more than ever, those filthy pieces of shit who killed Mom and forced him to –

“So this is the way it’s going to be?” the man says, without looking up, when Dean is almost upon him. “No kiss goodbye? You hurt my feelings, _mo chroí_.”

Dean stops dead. This is – the last thing he expected.

“Gus?” he calls, completely shocked. “That you?”

“I see your little swim hasn’t impaired your sight. Or your intellect.” The man steps under the light, and yeah, that’s Gus alright – Dean’s eyes move over the stupid tailored suit he always wears, up to the open, friendly expression on his face.

“You’re _real_?” he asks, stupidly, and Gus grins.

“As real as you, doll.”

“I thought –” Dean starts, and when he turns to look for Cas, he sees the angel seemingly emerging out of thin air; wonders if he’s witnessing some weird–ass angelic cloaking spell right there, makes a mental note to tell Sam about it before turning back to Gus. “That’s not possible. Are you like – Charlie? Someone who’s real, but not here? Someone I’ll end up killing?”

Gus’ eyes flicker to Cas, then back.

“Lord, no. I’d like to see you try,” he says, but he smiles.

“He’s not part of your dreamworld,” Cas explains, a hint of steel in his voice. “Crowley is a demon, Dean. A crossroad demon, to be exact.”

Gus almost takes a step back, but then – Dean sees it clearly – that same fucking _come at me_ thing Dean himself’s got in spades trumps his common sense, and he remains exactly where he is, though his hands disappear into the pockets of his trousers.

“Who are you?” he asks, almost pleasantly. “And how do you know my name?”

“You two will be friends, one day,” Cas says, instead of answering, and Gus makes an amused sound.

“I believe I asked you a question,” he says. “Or, well, two, if you want to nitpick.”

In response, Cas lights up again, his body becoming almost too bright for Dean to look at as the shadow of his powerful broken wings grows and grows against the wooden roof of the bridge.

# 

And now Gus _does_ take a step back, his right hand coming up in front of his face to protect himself from the light.

“Put one hand on me, Destroyer, and a _legion_ of mine will avenge me,” Gus snarls, once Cas’ light is gone, and Dean can see clearly, even in soft glow of the lanterns, that his eyes are flashing red.

Dean stares and tries and fails to piece it all together in his mind. Because demons – because that’s _not_ what demons are. He thinks about Gus taking that cigarette from him, his eyes flirty and amused. About Gus’ loud, annoyed cursing at losing some game of pool. He remembers, as clearly as he does anything, Gus’ warm voice, British accent sliding into a Scottish lilt as the night grew darker and darker around them – Gus telling him, _Of course I bloody knew Jimmy Page, you think you’re dealing with a bloody amateur here_ and Dean laughing so hard he’d almost pulled a muscle, because _Dude, shut up, you never_.

And whatever’s going on here, Dean’s relief at this not being Alastair is so vast and boundless he finds he can’t exactly –

“ _Will_ they, Crowley? Will they _really_? Because to me, it looks like they sent you out here to _die_. It looks like you’re _expendable_.”

Cas is – _different_. He’s hard now, and powerful, and careful. And yet at the same time there’s the same hint of sadness in his voice as he stands his ground and challenges this man Dean thought was his friend.

Crowley: a demon.

“What’s going on here? How do you two know each other?”

“We don’t know each other,” Cas says. “Not yet.”

“Okay, well, just – enough with the dick measuring contest, okay?”

Crowley stares at Dean, and then his eyes turn brown again, and he starts laughing.

“You never disappoint,” he says, and Dean shakes his head at him.

“So, you’re a _demon_ now? You could have mentioned that.”

“Oh, I’m sure that would have gone down well in that pretty little fantasy you’d created for yourself. It would have –”

“I didn’t create anything for _myself_. I was _forced_ into it, you dickbag,” Dean says, annoyed, and Crowley grins at him.

“Same difference,” he says. “And where did you find this one? It’s a fine little thing, I’ll give you that,” he adds, looking Cas up and down, “but if he’s your ticket out of here, I hope you didn’t get too attached.”

“What do you mean?” Dean asks, but Crowley shakes his head.

“Why don’t you ask him?”

Dean turns back at Cas, finds he’s got that expression on his face again – a regretful, uneasy frown.

“We have less than twenty minutes,” he says, ignoring Dean’s unspoken question; and then he looks past him. “Crowley, we’re going to need safe passage across the bridge.”

Crowley laughs again.

“Oh, I _like_ him. He’s got nerve.”

“Crowley –”

“I’d love to help you out, duckling, but my job is to _literally_ not do that,” Crowley says, and he moves slightly, so he’s in the middle of the bridge.

“Oh, come _on_ ,” Dean says, but he can see perfectly well he’s outgunned here.

Crowley has even adjusted his stance, and even though the thing is subtly done, Dean’s got enough experience to see the guy thinks he’s going to be fighting _Cas_ , not Dean. That in his eyes, Dean’s not even a threat.

That stings a bit, and it’s also oddly comforting.

“Don’t be stupid. This is your last chance to turn back.”

“Or what?”

Crowley seems to think this through.

“Your friend’s light is fading,” he says, slowly, “but even so, he’s right. It’s not likely I’ll be able to take you both down. Which means you’ll kill me and cross the bridge. So your answer to that is, 'or you end up in the world they’ve created for you’. Which is _way_ worse than the one we’re offering, believe me.”

Dean frowns.

“That makes no sense.”

“No? I take it you remember your life now? Had heaps of fun, did we?”

“Crowley –”

The demon ignores Cas, keeps his eyes on Dean.

“Hey, remember when your dad beat you bloody because you’d snogged a boy? I was watching that, though you never saw me. Fine technique, and all. Too bad it ended the way it did.”

Dean clenches his jaw.

“It was back in New York, right? When you sneaked out of your crappy hotel room and pretended like you were a real person, and not your daddy’s toy?”

“Shut up.”

“Or when Sammy disappeared on you just because he wanted to – because he couldn’t bear another second of your miserable, _dysfunctional_ –”

“I said, shut _up_.”

Crowley looks at him carefully, as if calculating how to inflict the worst hurt he possibly can.

“But then he _died_ , of course. So I’m guessing you’ve forgiv–”

Ignoring Cas’ warning, Dean sprints forward, charges at Crowley – and the thing is, Crowley _lets_ him. Dean pushes him backwards, sits on top of him, and he lands one, two punches before he hears Alastair’s slightly raspy voice tapping against his skull –

_Yes, that’s right. Put your weight into it. Feel the skin break. That’s the best part, am I right, Dean? When you see them realize there’s no stopping you and no fighting you, and this is how they die. Lap it up, boy._

– and he lets go, his hands on the wooden planks on either side of Crowley’s face, his breathing way too quick and shallow to actually do anything good for his heart and lungs.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he really doesn’t want to cry, not here, not ever again, but he can’t stop himself. “I’m sorry,” he says again, and he catches Crowley’s surprised expression for only a second before Cas arms close around him and lift him up.

“Dean, it’s not –”

“Let _go_!” Dean growls, and he pushes Cas away and he turns his back on both of them, the angel and the demon, because his life’s a fucking joke and something’s very wrong with him and he can’t –

“God, you’re a _mess_ ,” Crowley drawls, after a couple of minutes of silence. Dean straightens up, presses his hands on his face and makes a rude gesture at him.

“Well, at least I’m not conning people into being my friends because I’m too _patheti_ c to –”

“Pot and kettle, sweetheart –”

“ _Enough_ ,” Cas says, and now he sounds tired and done for. “You and I both know you will let us pass without a fight, Crowley, so –”

“And we know that because –”

“Because you gave Dean your real name,” Castiel snaps.

At that, Dean turns his head so quickly to look at Crowley he almost hurts himself. He’s still feeling wrong and broken, but that doesn’t matter now. After all these years of hunting Yellow Eyes, he knows the value of a demon’s true name. If Cas is right, it’s beyond – beyond _shocking_ that –

“Fergus?” Dean asks, carefully, and the demon shakes his head. "Fergus McLeod?"

“A moment of empty sentiment. You won’t be able to use it against me, Dean. Once you get back, you will forget we even met in the first place.”

They all look at each other, and then Crowley sighs, and now he’s simply Gus, the guy behind the counter – the one with the dirty jokes and the kickass LPs. The one who made even Charlie blush, and always winked at Dean and served him his favorite beer without him needing to ask anything.

“You know the price, I assume,” he says, rolling his eyes at Cas.

“Yes. You told me.”

“I _told_ you? We never met before today.”

“No. But we will meet again.”

“Is that so?”

Crowley looks around, almost furtively, as if to check if they’re alone – they are, as far as Dean can tell – then steps closer.

“Any advice, then?”

Cas smiles – a small, reluctant thing.

“Be clever. Be ambitious. Don’t trust anybody. And if you happen to get your hands on Lucifer’s sword, keep it somewhere safe, because I will need it one day.”

“Because _you_ will need it?” Crowley asks, and Cas nods. “Bossy. I like that. Anything else?”

Before Cas can answer, a bell tower starts to chime in the distance, and there is a flash of light in the sky – perhaps a bolt of thunder. Dean watches, completely awed, as the thing crashes down on them all and the bridge they’re standing on is sawed straight off and the second half of it, including Crowley, splinters into the abyss below.


	21. December 24th, 11 pm

Cas may be a seraph, a creature of immense power, the commander of a garrison for time untold, and a superb strategist, but as Sam quickly walks down to Dean’s room, he finds he doesn’t have the strength, or the will, to oppose destiny any longer.

He remains on the threshold, idly pulling at the tatters of his shirt, as Sam moves inside the room – hisses in exasperation when he sees that Dean’s duffel is still on the delicate eighteenth century table (made by Boulle’s elder son; Cas can smell the boy’s resentment and annoyance without even trying), picks it up and puts it down on the bed instead.

Cas knows the duffel is fuller than usual. Dean had packed it and unpacked it several times, muttering under his breath, oblivious to the fact Cas had been listening in as he scanned police frequencies in the War Room. In fact, he’d never discussed the issue with Cas at all, but Cas was aware of it all the same – he’d known from the start that Toni’s privileged background was going to be a problem in some way.

In the end, Dean had cursed out loud and packed his usual clothes, two ties, and his best suit.

“Christmases are for stupid sweaters and _fucking jammies_ ,” he’d spit out, and Cas had smiled from three rooms away. “The food had better be fucking _worth_ it, you _bitch_.”

Not that Sam had gone into detail about their Christmas lunch plans, but Dean had assumed it would include a fancy restaurant, and, as far as Cas can tell, he hadn’t been wrong.

“Okay, what about these?” Sam says, pulling out a pair of dark jeans.

Cas doesn’t remember the jeans at all (on himself, that is: he remembers them on Dean, and vividly, because they close with four buttons and Cas can still feel the rough texture of the metal against his own knuckles), but he watches on with trepidation, both willing Sam to go on and hoping he won’t. He knows which t–shirt Sam will pick, but he still prays he’s wrong – because if it should happen tonight, that wouldn’t –

“And black. Why not? Black is always the new black,” Sam says, fishing the Led Zeppelin t–shirt out of Dean’s duffel, and something inside Cas crumbles and dies.

He knew this was coming, but he’d hoped he’d have at least one Christmas with Dean. As a couple, or whatever they are now.

Which was stupid of him.

Christmas doesn’t mean anything at all.

Or, well – it reminds people light will come after dark, and all he can do now is pray Dean will remember that universal truth and hold on to the life he’s chosen for himself. That Dean will forgive himself for something that’s not his fault at all.

“Cas, what’s wrong?”

“I – nothing.”

Sam frowns, steps closer to him, the t–shirt but a dark patch on the flowery bedspread.

“You know,” Sam says, coming to a stop in front of him; but he doesn’t add anything.

He raises one hand, as if to touch Cas, then lets it fall again. His soul is a confused, unhappy mess of things twisted out of shape and put together without care or reason.

“What?”

Sam takes a breath, looks away, then at Cas again.

“Dean is my brother,” he says, slowly. “But you and I, Cas – we’re _friends_. I’d die for you, just as I’d die for him. And if there’s anything I can do to help – or if you want to talk, or anything –”

And just like that, Cas gives up. He knows dying will hurt – not only the physical part of it, but everything else – the regret of days unlived, and the fact he never got to say goodbye to Dean – and the thought of sharing his final moments with Crowley – someone who’s not exactly an enemy, not any longer, but will never be a friend – is suddenly more than he can bear.

“You can be there. With me. When it happens,” he says, before he can lose his nerve, and Sam clenches his jaw.

“So, that’s the big secret. That’s what you haven’t told Dean. You’re not _leaving_ , are you? You’re _dying_.”

That is not exactly accurate, but Cas nods anyway.

“Cas –”

Sam almost disappears from Cas’ sight for a moment as his soul turns a dull, lightless black, and then Sam pushes back against it, because there are things to be done, and he knows he’ll be the one who will have to do them.

“How is that _possible_?” Sam insists, visibly trying to wrap his head around the concept. “I thought angels were – immortal? Are you _sick_?”

“No,” Cas says. “My time has come, that’s all. Please, let’s not argue about this.”

Sam opens his mouth, then closes it. And then he moves forward, engulfs Cas in an almost violent hug, because, unlike Dean, Sam’s never forgotten that Cas is not human, and he knows Cas can take it – knows Cas can bear the desperation and pain and unhappiness Sam is feeling and doesn’t know how to express properly – knows it only works like this, unsaid words squished between them, shuddering and suffocating and going out as Sam, uncaring of Cas’ state of tattered undress, fists his hands in what remains of the old trench coat and breathes against his hair.

“I can be there,” he says, after a full minute, stepping back. “I _will_ be there.”

“Thank you.”

It’s the worst possible moment, really, to have a glimpse of Dean and see where Dean is and feel Dean longing for him. As Sam leaves the room with a muttered, “I’ll let you get dressed,” Cas blinks his eyes open on the peaceful [Arno](http://awed-frog.tumblr.com/post/151986666162/the-way-out-is-a-dcbb-2016-fic-it-was-supposed-to) river, feels the solid weight of the marble balustrade as it presses against Dean’s forearms through three layers of clothes. The water is almost black in this light, and it looks perfect, motionless. Dean is not looking at it. Not really. The houses on the banks are glowing, their windows a joy of oranges and yellows and whites, but Dean is not looking at them either. He’s staring back inside himself instead – he’s thinking about that moment he came into the War Room with his grandfather’s ring – Henry’s, that is – Cas knows, in a very vague way, that Dean and Sam found a chest containing his letters and personal effects months ago. Dean’s wishing, not that he could take it back, but that he’d had the good sense to wait. That thing at the diner – he’d been so _angry_. So tired and done of hiding and scuttling about. And Cas didn’t deserve a life like that – that’s what Dean is thinking. Not that Cas would ever allow anyone to beat him up or spit at him, but he doesn’t deserve those other things either – the pretending to be just friends, the booking of two rooms instead of one, all that bullshit.

# 

So, yeah, Dean had tried to do a good thing, a _decent_ thing, for fucking _once_ in his fucking miserable _life_ – and he’d still fucked up. Cas is too kind to say anything, but of fucking course he doesn’t want him. Hell, who would?

Cas comes back to himself with a panicked breath. He can’t leave when Dean is like this. He owes him an explanation, and he needs to make it clear – beyond doubt – that Dean is not the problem – that Dean is _worth_ it – that Dean is, in fact, _everything_ –

But the next second, he feels the tug again, stronger than ever. And he also hears, loud as a bell, the sound of Crowley appearing on the roof – two floors above his head.

There is no more time.

With quick, panicked movements, he strips off his ruined clothes, puts on Dean’s jeans and the black t–shirt; then he grabs Dean’s black shoes – the only pair of elegant shoes Dean has, which he’d brought fully expecting he’d be submitted to all sorts of ‘Downton Abbey bullshit’, slips them on without tying the laces, runs out of the room, almost colliding with Sam.

“I have to go,” he says, the words rushing out of his mouth, crowding upon one another. “I have to go _now_. But you must tell Dean – tell him I always loved him. Tell him it’s not his fault. Tell him I _chose_ this – I chose _him_ – and would do it again.”

Sam is grabbing his elbows, steadying him, his eyes huge under the burned–off bangs.

“Tell him what I said – what I _did_ – that had nothing to do with him. _Nothing_. If I could, I’d be honored to – I’d –”

Crowley must be feeling it too, because Cas hears him tapping his elegant watch with his index finger. He wonders absently if this is a privilege of Crowley’s title, or something else. After all, Crowley was always more than an ordinary demon.

“I _love_ him,” he blurts out in the end, clutching Sam’s arm. “More than _anything_. He _must_ know that.”

“I’m sure he does, Cas.”

“You _must_ tell him,” Cas says, and then he lets go, stumbles back against the wall as the thing comes closer and closer. “Enough! I’m coming!” he shouts, straightening up and growling at the ceiling; and then he bats away Sam’s helping hand, staggers and trips his way up the stairs, higher and higher, until he finds himself in front of a black door – blasts it apart with a flash of light exploding from his closed fist – and walks through the splinters.

He can hear Sam just behind him, and Sam’s intake of breath at the sudden cold, but his attention is now focused on Crowley, and on the silver blade he’s twirling between his hands.

“What the – what is _he_ doing here?”

“Hello to you too, Moose. Happy Christmas.”

“Cas, you never said – _Crowley_?”

“I left that address on your desk. You’re _welcome_ ,” Crowley adds, and Sam ignores him.

But Cas doesn’t say anything. He walks forward, unaware of the snow whirling around him, and he keeps walking until Crowley stretches his right hand out, the sword swinging gently in his palm, and says, “That’s far enough, I think.”

“What the _hell_ is going on, exactly? Why is _he_ here?”

Sam stops next to Cas, pulls his own weapon out – an old gun loaded with copper bullets which will do absolutely nothing against Crowley – and stares at them both.

“You haven’t _told_ him? You haven’t told _either_ of them?” Crowley asks. He sheathes the blade again, managing to make it disappear inside his coat even if it’s clearly too long to fit, and frowns. “That wasn’t the deal, duckie.”

“What is it to you?” Cas asks, his impending destiny now heavy as lead on his shoulders.

“What is it – you _bloody_ – you think I _fancy_ having those blundering _idiots_ following me around, foaming at the mouth for revenge? Uh–uh. That’s not how it _works_. You tell him this was _your_ idea, or I go away, right bloody _now_.”

Cas shakes his head, tries to clear it.

“Crowley is the one destined to kill me,” he says, and then he has to close his hand on Sam’s arm so Sam won’t go charging at the demon.

“What the –”

“Nope. That’s not good enough,” Crowley says, and now there’s a hint of anger in his voice, and Cas frowns, tries again, his voice almost disappearing in the falling snow.

“Crowley’s the one who promised he would kill me.”

“Mother of – Sam, ignore him,” Crowley says, and he tries to look his usual, commandeering self; but he still makes a slight movement, as if to step back, when he senses the fury coming off Sam in waves. “You know your brother went to Hell, right? To save _your_ hide, if I remember correctly.”

Sam very nearly growls, and Crowley bares his teeth at him in what could almost be a grin.

“You – don’t you –”

“Yes, precisely. And he wasn’t held in any old cell either – he was tucked away very, very deep underground. In Lilith’s special little place. Wait, that came out wrong.”

“Crowley, don’t –”

“Shut up. I promised I’ll help you out, didn’t I? And I will. Which means that I get to tell him what I bloody damn _please_ ,” Crowley snaps, before turning to face Sam again. “What’s important to know is not _where_ the cell was, but how it was _locked_. Perhaps you’ve guessed already? You’re supposed to be the brains in this operation, right?”

“You think you’re so _funny_ ,” Sam spits out, “but you’re really _not_. I don’t know why Dean didn’t gut you when he had the chance.”

“The key was angelic Grace,” Crowley says, completely unmoved. “A full measure of it.”

Just like that, Sam stops struggling, and Cas lets him go. He can almost hear him putting two and two together, refusing to see what’s right in front of him because it’s just too awful to be contemplated.

“Lilith and Alastair thought this plan of theirs was foolproof,” Crowley adds, his sharp eyes moving between Cas and Sam, as if keeping them both in check. “Michael was never all that clever. If he came down himself to claim his vessel, he’d be _annihilated_. And even if he didn’t – even if he should send someone else in his place – that angel would be torched into _nothingness_. Dean Winchester would be left without an ally – without someone who could see his soul inside and out and understand what, exactly, had been done to him in Hell –”

Crowley’s voice wavers for a second, and Cas almost sees his real face: that inchoate human soul he drags after him everywhere he goes like a dead weight, and his desperate desire to belong (his need for anyone to _love_ him).

“All in all, a win–win situation,” Crowley adds, after a short pause. “So imagine our surprise when _two_ angels showed up – or, rather, two versions of the same angel.”

“I think that’s enough,” Cas says, but Crowley ignores him.

“And not just _any_ angel. A troublemaker. Someone _expendable_. Someone Heaven had been trying to kill off for quite some time, in fact.”

Crowley fingers his coat, only just, as if to check the blade is still there.

“It hurt to be outsmarted, I can tell you that. That’s when Ruby’s orders were upgraded – not only to bed you and indulge your blood kink, Sam,” he says, smacking his lips in mock approval and smirking up at Sam, “but to actively train you and separate you from your brother. Castiel here – he was unpredictable. We couldn’t have you under his influence, the way Dean would inevitably be.”

Sam’s soul is a kaleidoscope of grey and blues and greens. He plainly doesn’t understand what’s going on – not fully, anyway. He’s hoping Crowley’s lying, but he knows he’s not.

“Uriel did his part, but I – I was sent to deal with the rogue angel – to try and make him change sides. And that was how I understood there are no sides, and the whole thing came full circle.”

The snow is falling thick and fast now. From time to time, someone shouts out the verse of a song in drunken joy, but the night is mostly quiet. Soon the churches will be calling for the midnight mass, but not yet. Everything is silence.

“That was _years_ ago, though,” Sam says in the end, sounding like someone beat him and left him for dead in a ditch, and Crowley sighs, rolls his eyes.

“Time is not a river, Moose. It’s more like – an ocean. A place where – if you know where to look – salty and sweet water can exist side by side, and the current will either bring you to shore or shipwreck you into oblivion.”

Cas frowns.

“That was – not completely accurate, but very poetic,” he says, and Crowley smiles at him.

“Always the tone of surprise.” The demon’s about to add something else when Sam interrupts him.

“Wait, so what you’re saying – you’re going to – but Cas, this means – this can’t – is he – is this _true_?” Sam asks, and then, before waiting for an answer, he gives up.

The gun slides from his cold fingers, and he hugs himself, shudders.

“Yes,” Cas says, unnecessarily; and then he adds, turning to Crowley, “If your information is accurate, I need more time.”

“How much time?”

“Twelve minutes should suffice.”

Crowley laughs.

“I know you like to think you’re tough, _Cas_ ,” he says, stressing the nickname with mock affection, “but twelve minutes under my hands –”

“I trust you know how to do it?”

“Of course I _bloody_ know –”

“Then do it,” Cas says, taking a step forward; and Crowley stares at him for only a few seconds before sliding the blade out of his coat and closing the distance between them.


	22. December 24th – twelve minutes to midnight

The first stab goes through Cas’ stomach, smooth and precise – but not deadly, because Crowley hasn’t lied and he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Cas hears, faintly, Sam yelling behind him, can taste in his mouth the rush of power as Crowley moves his left hand and forces Sam back against the wall – pins him there like a dead butterfly, then turns back to Cas, uncaring of Sam’s cursing.

“You doing alright?” he asks, and Cas straightens up.

“More,” he asks, taking his hands, already red with blood, away from his stomach.

Crowley stabs him again, and then again. The thing seems to go on and on – soon, there’s not only blood oozing from his wounds, but blue–white Grace, and Cas welcomes this, because as his Grace is spent, he starts floating between the two worlds – the one he’s in right now, which is a marvel of snow and cold stars, and the one Dean was in eight years ago – a city of vibrant red colors and glimmering sun. As time goes on, Cas is less and less aware of what’s going on around him – of Crowley, now straddling him, an intent look on his face as he pushes the archangel blade under the bone of his right clavicle – of Sam, who is a blue spot in the distance, pain and rage in his voice – of Florence itself, peaceful and beautiful in this Christmas night. No, what Cas sees is what he _needs_ to see – what he _wants_ to see – the outside of a slightly rundown building, the soft glint of a brass plate (CASA DELLO STUDENTE, the black letters say).

Without even being aware he’s doing it, he crawls away from Crowley, the freshly fallen snow blooming red and crumbling under his fingers; he hears, very faintly, a conversation going on behind him. He manages, only just, to lift himself up to the balustrade, and then there is only wind and darkness.


	23. December 24th – midnight

As soon as Castiel disappears over the balustrade, Crowley lets the archangel blade fall from his fingers.

It may be one of the most powerful objects in the whole of Creation, but using it has burned from his palm all the way to – well, not his heart, since he doesn’t have one, but still – Crowley can’t stand to even _look_ at it a second longer.

He moves to the edge of the building instead, watches the shape of the angel four stories below him, lying motionless in the snow. His eyes pass on the outline of the huge black wings stretching on either side of Castiel’s body, and he feels something that, in someone else (in a human being) would be sadness. Grief, even.

Suddenly, the bells start chiming, calling the believers to the midnight mass, and Sam, as if responding to the sound, staggers to Crowley’s side, still trembling from the cold, tear tracks glimmering on his cheeks.

He doesn’t spare a glance for Crowley. Instead, he looks down, and his breath catches when he sees Cas’ still form face down in the quiet piazza.

His hands clench so tight it hurts him – Crowley smells blood when Sam’s short nails break the skin – but he doesn’t fall apart. That’s not who Sam is, and that’s certainly not who Sam is in front of a known enemy.

Crowley respects that, even if he’d rather be drawn and quartered than admit it.

And then Sam breaks the silence.

“Even if he asked you to, how could you do this?” he says, his voice so low his words are almost lost in the noise of the bells.

Crowley pauses. He knows Sam’s not looking at him, but still, he reacts on instinct – he turns his mouth slightly upwards, pushes his hands deep into the pockets of his tailored trousers.

“I have no soul, remember?” he says; and then they both watch as the tiny figure that is Dean – Crowley would recognize that graceful, slightly uneven gait anywhere – appears from the Loggia dei Lanzi and starts to run, blindly and desperately, towards the body lying in the snow.


	24. nI ɘnO ƚʜǫiЯ ɘʜT ƚɘ⅃

Dean isn’t thinking straight; he reacts on instinct, jumping forward and grabbing Crowley’s hand just before the demon slides out of sight.

With a forceful pull, he drags him on the wooden planks again, their edges now singed and smoking, and Crowley ends up on top of him as they both look back at the gaping void.

“You –” Crowley says, but there’s nothing after that.

“Hey, you’re a decent foosball player. You know how hard that is to find?”

Crowley sits up. Dean sees him looking up at Cas, who’s standing behind them; sees the expression in his eyes, half sheer shock, half exasperation.

“I’m a _demon_ ,” he says slowly, after a full ten seconds, looking down at Dean again. “We are _enemies_.”

“That’s rude,” Dean says. “Come on, get off me.”

Crowley does, still looking outraged. But as soon as the last chime echoes around them and peters out, they all forget about the bizarre incident.

“It’s six,” Cas says. “My time is up.”

“What're you talking about?”

“The way an angel can travel to this place – that’s complicated,” Castiel says. “And this time, I needed – I needed more than a breach of the walls. I needed for you to get to know me, so you would – I was afraid you wouldn’t want to leave,” he admits, and there’s a hint of shame in the words. “You were _lost_ , Dean, and I couldn’t –” Cas adds, as if trying to make him understand, and Dean reaches out, grabs his arm.

“Slow down, and just – explain” he asks again, and Cas looks down at the hand on his arm, then up, and directly at Crowley.

“A death twelve minutes long,” he says, meaningfully, stressing the number, “that’s fifteen hours in Hell. But you’ll need to be precise in your work. You know about Grace?”

“A bit,” Crowley frowns.

“Then learn.”

“And in exchange?”

Cas pauses.

“You’ll never be human again,” he says. “Not fully. But you will know love.”

For a split second, there is something open and vulnerable and just plain hurt on Crowley’s face until the demon turns away, and the sky above them rumbles with thunder again.

“What is that?” Dean asks, looking up.

“It’s me,” Cas says, calmly.

“I don’t understand.”

“Crowley and I – we found a way around the defense that was created to wall you in. Even if he doesn’t know it yet, he’s worked in your favor, not against you. Time is not a river, but an ocean, so to say, and a good sailor knows how to navigate its currents. I am in two places at once, Dean – this that you see,” he adds, opening his arms, gesturing at his Led Zeppelin t–shirt, “is the person I’ll be in seven years’ time. And the real me is coming to get you out, and bring you back to your brother.”

There is another flash of light, and the world around them, such as it is, is suddenly floodlit.

Dean blinks against it – the bridge is too wide for him to see the river below, and it looks like they’re suspended in mid–air on a broken and mutilated thing which could collapse any second.

“So what? You’re coming with me, right? Out there?”

“I will be with you out there,” Cas says, after a second of silence, and that’s not the answer Dean wanted.

“You said before – you told me I’d forget everything. What happened here, with you. So you need to come with me. It doesn’t matter if there’s two of you,” he adds, and then he fishes for a joke, anything – hell, there’s dozens of one–liners about threesome which are just there, and just out of reach –

“I will _always_ be with you, Dean,” Cas says, before Dean can find one, and something in his voice –

“Do you mean that literally? Because if you mean that in a douchey, _the memories of those we lost are never truly gone_ kind of way – that’s not good enough, man.”

“Dean –”

“I’m serious. You can shove it up –”

“As entertaining as this is, we are still on a schedule here,” Crowley cuts in, and Dean sees him look up at the sky – at how the clouds are unraveling and fraying above them, trying to contain something that cannot be contained.

Dean looks back at Cas, closes his hand on Cas’ forearm, his heart beating hard inside his chest.

“Cas, you can’t – you _know_ me. You know how I – you _gotta_ see it. What we – you can’t leave me. You can’t _leave_ me,” he repeats, and then – “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“It’s nothing,” Cas says. “Just –”

“What?”

Cas smiles again, then reaches down, peels the sticker off his chest.

“Here,” he says, passing it to Crowley. “What does it say?”

Crowley takes it automatically, then looks up at the sky again before uncurling the piece of paper.

“It’s written in white speech, you arse,” he says, his fingers twitching on the paper, as if both wishing to hold on to it and toss it as far as possible. “You know demons can’t read that.”

“Neither can humans.”

Dean doesn’t know what’s going on, and he doesn’t care much, because he doesn’t remember Cas from the mess of memories he’s seen – he thinks he can hear fragments of his voice, a flash of his blue eyes appearing and disappearing – but he knows where they’re supposed to end up – in some underground kitchen, a double axe fastened to the wall – a place where Dean will one day turn around and look at Cas and finally say –

“Cas, I –”

“But you looked at the letters, Dean, and you could make sense of them. You could see my Enochian name, even if it should have killed you.”

And Dean wants to tell Cas that it doesn’t _matter_ , not right now, because now he can feel it as well – the electricity in the air, the angry threat hanging over them all, and they _must_ – but before he can get the words out, Cas speaks again.

“All this time, I always thought I had, somehow, chosen you, and instead – instead _you_ had chosen _me_.”

And that is too much – the slight surprise in Cas’ voice, as if he somehow didn’t deserve someone as broken and cursed as Dean to want him and love him – Dean can’t take it. With an angry mutter, uncaring of Crowley standing right behind him, Dean pulls Cas against him and crashes their mouths together – and this time it’s not gentle or hesitant or shy, like that kiss they shared in a place that is now not a place at all; this time it’s desperate and it says everything Dean cannot put into words and needs Cas to understand, and maybe Cas hears those things, because he kisses Dean back and he bites and licks at his lips and he cups Dean’s face in his hands before moving his right down over Dean’s his shoulder, over the handprint he’s left on Dean’s soul.

“I _love_ you,” Castiel says, when neither of them can breathe and they have to stop, because the air around them is heavy with unspent glory and wrath and focused righteousness. He leans his forehead against Dean’s before reaching up and kissing the spot lightly. “I think I loved you from the first moment I saw you, even if I didn’t understand what the feeling was. And, Dean – I wish you could see yourself through my eyes. Selfless, and brave, and –”

“Cas, I – don’t go. _Please_ , man. I –”

Dean tries to hold on, but he might as well be clutching at fog. Cas walks effortlessly out of his grip, smiles at him, takes another step back.

“I love you,” he says again, his eyes never leaving Dean’s. “Never doubt that.”

And Dean knows, like he’s never known anything in his entire life, that he loves Cas, too, deeply and unreservedly – that whatever this creature is, and whenever they were truly destined to meet and no matter what is written to happen between them – there was always something there. There was something there from the very first second. He remembers Cas walking towards him in that shabby room that had been a thing of shadows and doubts; he remembers the way his own heart had clenched inside his chest at the sight of Cas, and he reaches out –

Cas’ smile widens, almost hides the sadness on his face. He takes another step back as the sky above them turns purple and bright blue and a music like Dean’s never heard before deafens him – not so much wind in the trees, but the nameless fury of a typhoon – grinds him and crushes him in devotion and purpose –

“Cas!”

“Stop it! You’ll kill us both,” calls Crowley from behind him, and Dean becomes aware of him for the first time – of strong arms closing around his chest, preventing him from getting any closer to the yawning nothingness Cas is now on the edge of.

“Goodbye, Dean,” Castiel says, his entire body shimmering with electricity, his blue eyes growing brighter and brighter.

And then he takes a last step backwards and his arms open by his side as he falls into the abyss.

“CAS!”

Dean can hear, as if from an entirely different world, Crowley shouting and cursing at him before the demon lets go, scorched by the impossibly bright light crashing down on them both, and next he becomes aware of four words inside the discordant music pressing down against his very soul, a joyous sentence repeated over and over – it’s just a flash of meaning before everything goes black and Dean can’t move and he can’t breathe and he goes frantically through his pockets for a lighter he _knows_ has to be there –

_Dean Winchester is saved._


	25. December 25th (part one)

Before stepping into the room, Sam adjusts his vest. It’s not that he’s bothered by the elegant clothes – although, however much he pretends, he thinks a big part of him will always be that scrawny kid who grew up in a moving car, and now, finally, he’s okay with it – but by the burned flesh underneath.

Toni had done her best, but that witch had been a true professional.

 _Had_ been, though: past tense.

Sam sort of grins at the memory – it’ll take them months to go through the books they’ve found, and _wow_ – and then straightens up, takes a deep breath, and opens the door.

Inside, everything is pandemonium. The gigantic Christmas tree in the corner is almost dwarfed by the swarm of children running and playing in front of it – Sam identifies Toni’s mother, a surprisingly sweet old lady, trying to console a little girl who’s crying over her torn sleeve, and he waves a hand at her as he makes his way to Fitz.

“Sam!” the child yells, the second he sees him, and then he runs towards him, almost hugs him around the middle before being overwhelmed by shyness and a newfound teenage gravitas.

It’s perhaps a bit soon – Fitz will turn ten in January – but Sam gets it. He was more or less the same age when he was made to realize slobbering all over Dean was not cool.

He sticks his hand out, and Fitz takes it.

“Merry Christmas, young master Bevell,” says Sam, seriously, and when Fitz shakes his head and giggles at his formality, Sam drags him forward and hugs him anyway.

Fitz hugs back.

For about five seconds.

“So, how was Venice?”

“Cold,” Fitz says, frowning at Toni’s foolishness – who goes to a city surrounded by water in the middle of the winter?

“And the seer?”

“He was okay.”

“Good.”

Sam looks down at Fitz’ blond head as the boy gets fidgety and turns around to check what his friends are doing. The truth is, they still don’t know what he will become, and how best to prepare him for what’s coming next; for now, though, Fitz is just a nine–year–old kid – mostly happy, mostly easy to get along with. His biggest dream? To form a rock band.

Sam grins as he remembers Toni telling him what her father’s reaction had been to _that_.

“So, there is this box,” Fitz hedges, and he’s too polite to ask if it’s a present for him, but he’s clearly itching to.

“Yeah? What about it?”

“It came later than the others. And it’s not labeled.”

“Mh. Weird,” Sam says, thoughtfully, before taking pity at Fitz’ forlorn expression.

“It’s an act,” Toni had told him once, stretching sleepily against his back. “Honestly, don’t fall for it. You’ll spoil him.”

“An act? Come on, he’s a _kid_.”

Toni had grumbled, something about men being idiots, before turning to her other side.

“I expected this from _Dean_ ,” she’d mumbled, just before falling asleep, “I know the words ‘mother hen’ were somewhere in his file. But you – the cold and calculating Sam Winchester –”

Sam had ended up offsetting his annoyance at that – not Toni’s words, that is, but the fact whoever had been watching him for twenty years had chosen to classify him as the Vulcan brother – by framing the ‘mother hen’ page in Dean’s file and sending it back to the Bunker.

His brother had never mentioned it at all, which meant Sam scored a point.

Sam kneels so he can look at Fitz properly, wincing when the soft fabric of his shirt catches the edge of his bandages.

“Can we talk?” he asks, and this time he’s not pretending to be serious.

Fitz nods.

He may be four feet three inches, but he’s so similar to his grandfather already – tailored clothes and a silk tie; Sam would love nothing more than to see him roll around in the mud with a dog – isn’t that what being a kid is all about?

Not that Sam would know, of course.

“I know it’s not always easy, the way you live. All those lessons, and the fencing and spell–casting – and also, bitter orange marmalade is kind of gross.”

Fitz pushes at him and laughs. It’s a long–standing argument between them: Fitz won’t have anything else for breakfast, and the one time Sam had tried it he’d almost gagged.

“Isn’t jam supposed to be _sweet_?” he’d protested, and Lord Bevell had looked at him very, _very_ balefully.

“This is _marmalade_ , young man. Not _jam_ ,” he’d said, and Fitz had to be excused from the table because he’d been laughing so much he'd snorted milk through his nose.

“But you know your mom loves you, right? Toni, I mean.”

Nine years of age: apparently, the end of childhood and the beginning of The Very Serious Questions. Not that Fitz was in any way disturbed by the fact Toni wasn’t his biological mother, but over the last few months he’d started to be fussy about it, abandoning even his formal _Mama_ to refer to Toni by name instead.

Toni had cried about it, of course, and then she’d pulled herself together – “What needs, must,” she’d said, in a way that had made Sam suddenly and fiercely protective of someone who could actually take him in a fight.

Also, it’s not like Fitz doesn’t love Toni to pieces still, so it hardly matters.

“She loves you very much, and she wants you to be safe. That’s why she has you taking all those classes. My dad was the same, you know.”

Sam pauses. He’d planned to say this to Fitz weeks ago, when he’d bought him the gift now sitting quietly in its silver box, but it’s still hard – Sam always has these moments when he thinks he’s okay with John – that he’s forgiven John, accepted his father did the best he could under very difficult circumstances – and then he sees Dean again – it can be something as ordinary as seeing Dean yawning his way into the Bunker’s kitchen, or the wordless joy he’d felt when Dean had stepped off that train with Cas – and all that hatred and resentment come crashing back.

Because whatever John had done to Sam, what he’d done to _Dean_ had been way worse. And Sam can forgive his own hurt, but Dean’s – and now he knows the full truth of it – Dean had sort of blurted it out at some point during the night, red–eyed and very nearly undone by grief – what had really happened in New York, and those other times – the real reason Dad had up and left to go after Yellow Eyes alone.

And Sam had sat in silence and taken it all. It was Dean’s pain, and it was very, very heavy, but Sam would carry it for him. That hadn’t been the time or the place to tell Dean what was really going through his mind – not with Cas being –

No, if Sam had found himself marveling at the sheer _insanity_ of it all – how he’d always felt like a freak because of those stupid powers and the demon blood, without ever suspecting his brother had been carrying another kind of stigma – how people – how _Dad_ – had tried to squash Dean’s true identity out of him and never once noticed Sam – the quiet boy, the good student – the one who only liked girls – had been well on his way to becoming the actual king of _Hell_ –

But John is dead.

So Sam should let it go.

“I know it’s not easy being different. And when I was a kid – yeah, it pretty much sucked,” Sam says, and Fitz laughs again, because in his world grown–ups don’t use words like that and he’s still not used to Sam’s carefree attitude. “And that’s why I want to think you can have both. You need to do well in your classes, Fitz, okay? You need to study. And we’ll help you to be the very best you can. But that doesn’t mean you can’t be what you want to be. Some of the time, at least.”

“How _much_ of the time?” Fitz asks at once, trying to capitalize on this unexpected support.

“We’ll see. It’s not easy to do math with life.”

“You mean _you_ can’t.”

“Oh, _I_ can’t? Okay, then, if you’re so good – can you tell me how much you love Toni and your grandma and your grandpa? With a number?”

“To the Moon and back. That’s just under five hundred thousand miles,” Fitz says at once, almost comically surprised by how easy the question was.

“And don’t you love Sam as well?” asks Lady Bevell from over their heads, and they both look up at her – Sam blown away, as he always is, by the picture–perfection of her (the white curls, the silk dress; the pearls) and Fitz presumably seeing what he’s seen since the day he was born: someone who loves him more than life itself.

And Sam does appreciate Lady Bevell’s good intentions, but he knows Fitz is reaching the limits of his wish to talk about feelings and listen to life lessons; when he sees the child blushing a bit, he smiles at him, nudges him.

“To a satellite and back?” he says, jokingly. “Satellites are very close to Earth, you know.”

Fitz thinks this over.

“To a satellite and back,” he agrees in the end, and Sam stands up, tousles his hair.

“That’s really great. And same here, you know that, right?” Sam says, and he suddenly remembers that conversation all over again –

“I have a child,” Toni had said, her lips very, very close to his; they hadn’t kissed yet, not once, not ever, and Sam had been so desperate to he hadn’t understood what she was saying to him, because he'd known about Fitz, of course he had – he’d known about Fitz for _months_ – and then he’d seen it in Toni’s eyes, how she was expecting him to reject her, how maybe she thought he’d assume they’d leave Fitz behind, and Sam had let out a long, shuddering breath, because he wasn’t ready, was he?

He simply wasn’t good enough.

But there was no one else, and Toni wanted _him_.

“I look forward to meeting him,” he’d said, and he’d been completely honest, and Toni –

“But, look, I think there’s still a present waiting for you. Why don’t you –” Sam starts, with a sudden stab of fear, because this is _his_ kid now, and he loves Fitz but he doesn’t know what he’s doing, but before he can even finish the sentence, or try to put that into words, Fitz’ already running away with an excited, “Thanks, Sam!”

“You’ll spoil him,” Lady Bevell says, in the same way Toni does; as if it’s inevitable, and not that bad a thing.

“Oh, come on – Toni told me he’s been asking for a guitar since he was old enough to talk,” Sam says, and they both stand and watch as Fitz destroys the silver package and gets his hands on a red–wooded Yamaha.

“I suppose there’s no harm in it,” the old woman replies, and Sam knows her well enough by now to know that translates to, _Great gift, Sam – you’re awesome_.

He pats her shoulder, wishes her Merry Christmas before walking away. He’s too worried about Dean to stay here and watch the happy mayhem – he knows his brother is around somewhere, and he suddenly needs to see him, in an almost primal way, because he remembers Bobby getting Dean a guitar for his twelfth birthday – he remembers Dean carrying it around everywhere, cramming it in the front of the Impala so he could hold on to its smooth curves even as he skimmed the newspapers, looking for cases.

(He remembers the night Dad had smashed it.)

It’s not easy to find Dean, though. The Palazzo Pitti is magnificent today – a thing of music and laughter and happy crowds. There seems to be secret little tables everywhere, groaning with food and drinks, and the lights are reflected and magnified by the cases of the exhibition – something about ancient jewelry – Sam can see the glint of necklaces and earrings as he moves from one room to the other, and for a second he resents it all – the fact this should be a public place, and instead it’s been closed off for the day so the best families of Florence could enjoy their Christmas cheer.

And then he sees his brother – Dean’s piling what seems, frankly, a truly unnecessary amount of food on one of the fine china plates, uncaring of the offended gaze of the fur–collared lady on his right. When she finally decides enough is enough and says something to him – Sam was never all that good at reading lips, but he can still see that the woman is speaking Italian – Dean looks down and grins and blows her a kiss. Then he turns around, and their gazes lock.

Sam makes a point to roll his eyes at him, and to include in that the fact Dean’s wearing a formal suit with beaten down leather boots. But Dean grins at him too before mouthing, very clearly, _Blow me, bitch_ , and disappearing towards the garden exit with his little treasure of French cheeses and Parma ham and dried tomato soufflés.

“They grow up so quickly,” says a pleasant, cultured voice behind him, and Sam stiffens.

“What the hell are _you_ doing here?”

“Rude, Moose,” Crowley replies, stepping forward, still watching the place Dean was until a few seconds before; and then he turns and looks Sam up and down. “You clean up well.”

“Crowley, I _swear_ –” Sam starts, but there’s nothing after that.

How could there be?

“I was invited, if you must know. By your future father–in–law. And by the mayor. And by the curator of this fine exhibition. I actually donated half a dozen pieces, and there is only one I intend to steal back. For sentimental reasons, of course.”

Sam says nothing, and Crowley narrows his eyes.

“Isn’t it uncomfortable, Sam, to walk around with such a huge stick up your arse all the time?”

“I can manage,” Sam says, stiffly. He’s about to walk away when he realizes he can’t – not just yet.

Instead, he gets two glasses from a passing waiter, offers one to Crowley; and Crowley takes it.

“The doctors said none of the stab wounds damaged his vital organs,” he says, and then makes a slight pause. “Thanks for that.”

Crowley doesn’t answer. He looks around the room, instinctively, the same way Dean, and Sam himself, always do – to check for exits and potential threats – and then swirls the dark red wine in his glass, once, twice.

“I should have killed him,” he says, quietly. “I mean, he asked me to. _Begged_ me to, even. The whole business was quite embarrassing, really. And, well – part of me really wanted to. What do I care of the life of others?”

Sam waits, but Crowley doesn’t answer his own question.

“But you didn’t,” he says, in the end.

“No. No, I didn’t. Will you look at that.”

Sam hasn’t slept at all, which means the events of the previous night are pushing against his skin like broken bones. He still can’t make sense of what happened – not completely. He remembers, loud as thunder, looking down as Dean had fallen to his knees on the snow, his hands moving uselessly over Cas’ back, a gut–wrenching murmur of “No!” getting louder and louder, echoing even over the mournful sound of the bells. And, next, he’d been down by his brother’s side – Crowley had disappeared, but he’d been the one to fly Sam down four stories, no question about that. He doesn’t remember where the ambulance had come from, but he’s sure Dean’s shouts must have woken up half the city.

And after that, there’s only a vague impression of white walls and Dean’s even whiter face as he babbled about him and Cas, and something about a diner, and how John had beaten him bloody that one time in New York, because –

With the lives they’d had, Sam somehow always assumed the worst was behind them. And yet, those three hours they’d had to wait to hear if Cas would make it had been –

And the thing was, Cas shouldn’t have made it at all. He’d meant to _die_ , Sam is sure of that, but, apparently, Crowley had found a loophole. Sam still doesn’t understand, exactly, how that locked cell in Hell had worked, and why the timelines had crossed when they had. What he _does_ know is the key to everything was Grace; a full measure of it, as Crowley had put it. And this was what Crowley had done on that rooftop – he’d tortured and mutilated the angel Cas still was – that being more than a thousand feet tall – a creature of light and storm and revolving seasons who’d stayed completely still as its most intimate self was torn apart and destroyed.

For Dean.

(Again.)

But somehow, Crowley had managed to spare Cas’ _human_ life. Sam had wondered about that – if Cas, after becoming human, and then a seraph again, had retained a human soul, or a seed of one. If he’d been tending to it, growing it inside himself even though it hurt and lashed out and was nothing like the immortal, obedient son he’d been created to be.

And, whatever the truth of the matter, Cas had lived.

“You realize,” Sam had said, as he and Dean looked down at Cas’ sleeping figure, strangely small in a hospital gown.

But then he’d stopped.

“I don’t care if he’s human,” Dean had replied, pressing a hand against his face (God, he’d looked awful; _ruined_ ). “I don’t care if he’s a dog, or a fucking _cockroach_. All that matters is that he’s here.”

There had been such raw emotion in his voice, Sam had felt really out of place; humbled and diminished and blown to pieces by the now silent weight of his brother’s love. He’d walked out of the room, out of the severe lines of the hospital building; he'd wandered aimlessly around the city in the early morning light before realizing he was heading for the station, and that there was still time to catch Toni’s and Fitz’ train. And so he’d walked down empty streets, past the black and white church, his head full of noise and muddy things – Dean storming away from the restaurant, Cas looking at him, then away; Cas’ hurried, desperate plea (“You _must_ tell him.”). Crowley on the rooftop of the Bevell’s palazzo, as unsettling as ever in his black clothes. The silver blade in his hand, almost vibrating with power. And, of course – Sam had closed his fingers around the hot ceramic cup – Cas yelling, that raw sound of pain and loss.

(The huge wings on either side of him, as precise and intricate as an Escher painting.)

He’d planned to go to the track to meet Toni and Fitz, but they’d been the ones to find him instead – he must have made a pitiful tableau, huddled over the tiny café table, his hair half burned off, his jacket stained with blood.

“I don’t know if I can –” Sam starts, and then he takes a sip of wine, looks away. “I know Dean doesn’t –”

“I’m not asking,” Crowley points out; and, again, he surveys the room, one hand disappearing into a pocket of his elegantly cut trousers.

Dean would know how he was really feeling, but Sam was never able to read the demon’s face worth a damn.

“I know you’re not. But what you did for us – for Dean – that can’t be paid back.”

“I don’t _want_ payment.”

Sam turns around, stepping closer to Crowley, despite his misgivings, so the conversation will be more private.

“I can’t trust a demon,” he says, in a low voice. “Not again. After Ruby, I promised myself – I _can’t_. So things between us – they’ll never be okay.”

“My, aren’t you sentimental today? Feeling the Christmas spirit, are we, Moose?”

And, again, Sam feels a stab of annoyance at the fact he can’t understand what Crowley really means.

“But I _am_ grateful. We owe you,” he says, trying to keep the resentment out of his voice.

“I told you – I don’t want bloody _payment_.” Crowley drinks his wine, grabs another glass from a passing waiter. “You can save your gratitude.”

“What do you want, then? You said things had come full circle – you said Ruby –”

“Ruby didn’t have a soul, Sam. I do.”

Sam can only stare, the happy noise of the room dimming and fading around him.

“What? No, that’s not – how? Since when?”he asks, and Crowley must hear it in his voice – that Sam’s talking of a human soul as he would of a disease – because he clicks his tongue in irritation.

“Since you forced one into me, you useless _git_.” He drains his second glass, looks around for a third.

And it’s not like Sam’s forgotten about it – the dilapidated church, and how the light had dimmed as he'd felt Death himself coming for him – how he’d pushed forward nonetheless; and Crowley’s hoarse shouts – _I deserve to be loved_ \- but -

“I –”

He’s not sure if he should apologize.

They stand together in awkward silence for a few minutes – at least, it’s awkward for Sam; Crowley is his usual inscrutable self – before Crowley says, a bit diffidently, “I heard you found the witch.”

“We did. Thanks for that,” Sam says, a bit surprised at the abrupt change of subject.

“Did she have the Alexandria papyri?” Crowley asks, even more diffidently.

Sam thinks back at the house they’ve raided in the morning – and, yes, he definitely remembers three huge trunks filled crumbling rolls.

“I think so. Why do you ask?”

“I thought I’d take advantage of your unusually charitable mood and ask you if I could read them.”

_Okay, then._

“Why? Because they’re filled with nasty, nasty magic you can use against us?”

Crowley moves his hand, and the wine glass he was holding suddenly melts against his skin, red–hot, before reforming into something else – a whiskey glass, its edges still looking a bit tender.

“I have all the magic I need,” the demon scoffs, and he glances around, as if looking for a bottle. “But those books – I think the _Cypria_ might be in there somewhere.”

“The what?”

“Losing our edge, are we, Moose?”

A waiter suddenly appears between them, as if summoned by Crowley’s empty glass. He’s carrying a bottle Sam’s never seen before and probably costs more than everything he’s ever owned in his life.

“Cheers,” Crowley toasts, and then he lowers his voice again. “This is a little–known fact, but I’m something of a collector. And I – I like to read. I think you appreciate what that’s like?”

Still a bit dazed, Sam nods.

“Good. You speak of reconciliation – it’s not money I want. And us being allies – that never worked out all that well in the past. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I want us to be – friends.”

“Us – you and me?” Sam asks, with mounting incredulity.

“Don’t flatter yourself. Us, as in _everyone_. Your brother, the angel, whoever’s left of your little gang. Demons are not good company, I promise you that.”

Sam opens his mouth, then closes it.

“And I thought we could start by working together on those books – some of them are bound to full of, how did you put it? Nasty, nasty magic? I can help you with that.”

Crowley finally looks up, sees the expression on Sam’s face.

“Oh, come on. I’ve grown quite _fond_ of you. I only want to kill you about twice a month, now. That’s definite progress.”

There are many reasons to turn that offer down, and Sam knows them all. Over the years, he’s collected a long, detailed mental file of everything that’s wrong with Crowley – but as he stands there, a Christmas carol playing somewhere in the distance, Sam is suddenly forced to realize many of his reasons for hating Crowley are really reasons to hate demons, and Crowley’s been more than that for a long time.

And also – there’s little doubt in Sam’s mind that something very _unholy_ went down between Crowley and Dean – he’s only seen the first half of those Flickr pictures, but Jesus, that was _wrong_ – and he knows, because this is something he can tell, that whatever Crowley feels for Dean – an actual human feeling, that is, or maybe the kind of obsession a collector has for that one butterfly that got away – a solid black mass dropping low in his stomach every time he’d see the empty pin in the frame – well, Sam doesn’t know _what_ it is, but he knows it’s _real_. And he also knows that, no matter what happened in those karaoke bars and dingy motels, as long as Cas is alive Dean will never look at anyone else. That’s just a fact, and Crowley knows it.

Hell, he’s bitched about it often enough.

And the fact he’s chosen to save Cas despite this – to give up the first hint of love he’s managed to experience after three hundred years trapped in Hell – Sam has to give it to him. Crowley’s changed. And maybe Sam can work on forgiving him.

_I deserve to be loved._

“We will need an expert,” he says, carefully. “But those rolls are fragile, and our conditioned room has a demon trap carved on the ceiling.”

Crowley looks back at him levelly.

“I’ll walk in if I have your word I’ll walk out again.”

Sam hesitates, then nods.

“Deal.”

“And not in forty years, mind. Office hours, out by five,” Crowley insists, and Sam has a sudden flash of how the thing could work – of himself and Crowley sitting side by side at the huge desk of the library; of Crowley forgetting to be rude and sarcastic as he lays his eyes on words that haven’t see the light of day for thousands of years, and is so enthralled by them he starts translating their poetry to Sam, shaking his head at the beauty of it all.

“Yeah, Jesus,” Sam says. “ _You_ ’re the demon here. I’m trustworthy.”

“Oh, demons are _far_ more trustworthy than humans. What we promise, we deliver.”

Sam sighs.

“I’ll _try_ , Crowley, okay? I promise you I’ll try. What you did for Cas,” _for Dean_ , is the unspoken thing there, “that was – very decent.”

“Good. Then I’ll see you after the holidays,” Crowley says simply; and then, probably knowing Sam won’t shake his hand, just in case there’s a way to make deals he’s not aware of, he briefly squeezes his arm and walks away.

Sam follows his dark head moving through the crowd, watches him as he stops and chats with virtually everyone; and then he sighs, turns around, almost collides with –

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been suggested that as much as 99% of ancient literature could have been lost; and even by conservative estimates, what we have is only about 30% of the works produced in Greece and Rome. A personal favourite I'd gladly sell my soul to read is the _Cypria_ \- an epic poem which was a sort of prequel of the _Iliad_ \- thousands and thousands of hexameters about Peleus and Thetis and the Judgement of Paris and how the whole war came to be. 
> 
> *sighs, stares out of the window*


	26. one little room (an everywhere)

There are, Toni thinks, too many people. It is unreasonable of her, and yet here we go: she simply can’t stand it anymore.

She smiles, puts her hand on someone’s arm, mentions someone else’s son, now reading philosophy at Queens; then moves forward, the white envelope under her fingers a welcome exercise in escapism.

The truth is, her journey to America has changed her, awoken in her something she’s been trained to suppress and forget since she was a little girl. Moving in a crowd of navy suits and whites and pearls, Toni remembers staying up long past her bedtime, opening a window, and staring at the dark garden, at the forest beyond. Wishing she could just – run, perhaps. Never look back.

Silly fantasies, of course.

Thank _goodness_ Fitz is not like that.

And yet – Belinda hadn’t said much, during their endless hours of driving, a boundless stretch of corn fields and maize fields and wide grasslands beyond the glass, but Toni had still seen it – the carefully controlled annoyance, the almost there scoffing at this loud, uncontained country. A continent, really, where one could drive on and on and never see a town or a house or even a human being for miles and miles.

Belinda had _hated_ it. It had been, perhaps, a form of agoraphobia. Or simply a need for things to be clear, finite. Well–defined.

Toni had loved those long drives.

Not that she’d had the chance to think about it, exactly, and not at first – not with Belinda’s frosty silence and Sam Winchester’s muttered curses bouncing against the back of her head, but afterwards – those last few months – her stuffy black car left behind, her worry about Fitz assuaged, and Sam now a comfortable, familiar shape at her side – those last few months Toni had well and truly seen it.

Whatever she is, it is not in this room. It is somewhere back on those roads, all the way to the horizon. And it certainly is with those people – with Sam, of course, and Dean and Castiel, and Toni still can’t believe –

“I like these,” someone says, just beyond the corner, and Toni’s steps hesitate, then stop.

“Yeah, don’t get used to it. Next week, it’s back to diner food.”

Toni knows these voices well. Dean’s voice – she’s studied it for months and months, playing and replaying an old VHS someone had been able to ferret out of an American police station. The image had been grainy, the quality certainly not ideal, but the audio had told her all she needed to know.

“I think I’m adorable,” the man had said, and Toni had relaxed back in her chair, marveled at him.

Because this was Dean Winchester. The famous Dean Winchester. A hunter and a Man of Letters. Also crook and a murderer and once the harbinger of the Apocalypse.

Or so they’d thought.

Toni had replayed the tape over and over, mapping Dean’s voice on her software, wishing she had a source for Sam’s, as well, because, unlike Dean – predictable and loud and always, always the centre of attention, Sam had been much _harder_ to pin down.

Unable to help herself, Toni takes a step forward, peers beyond the door.

The room is very small – an afterthought, really. Most likely a _jardin d’hiver_ someone had decided, hurriedly and irrationally, to reconvert into a parlour. There are wide windows, almost floor to ceiling, and Toni is distracted, only for a moment, by the beauty beyond the glass: a frozen garden, framed by softly falling snow.

“I _like_ diner food,” says Castiel’s low voice, and Toni’s eyes move to the two figures sitting on the George III sofa. She can only see the back of their heads, the sharp angle of their shoulders against the backdrop of golden silk (Dean’s a black, no–nonsense line, and Castiel’s all wrong in one of Sam’s hoodies). She watches as Dean glances at Castiel, then back at the garden again.

“That’s good,” he says, neutrally, “because it’s what you’re getting.”

Toni knows she shouldn’t watch them. She was looking for Dean, of course, to see how they both were, and to double–check the departure date and the tickets in her envelope, but now she’s found him, she’s unwilling to intrude.

In fact, she should walk away.

She doesn’t, though.

What happened between her and Dean, in a way, is even more miraculous than the slow blooming of her love for Sam, because, no matter what she was ordered to do, no matter her reasons, Toni knows she’s hurt Sam (she still wakes up at night, more often than not, her breath itching in her throat, and she checks her own hands for blood; she passes her fingers through the hair of the man sleeping at her side, and she’s always, always on the verge of tears); she’s spent years working on her Dean Winchester file, and the hard, unflinching truth is written all over the pages. Dean may not be a bad man, or even a killer, but Toni knows Agent Henriksen had had the measure of this man, even without understanding the world around him; knows Dean would destroy _anyone_ who put a hand on his little brother. Burn them to the ground.

And yet, he’d given her a second chance. Because Toni hadn’t acted against either of them; what she’d done, she’d always done for Fitz, and this, Dean understands.

(A parent’s love.)

Toni watches the two of them now, Dean and Castiel, watches how close they’re sitting; how they’re not touching, and yet the faint light of this Christmas day afternoon can barely make its way through their bodies.

This, she thinks, is something she and Sam never discussed.

Toni remembers watching Dean and Castiel – watching Dean steal Castiel’s food in diners and tousle Castiel’s hair at the end of a hard day and the way Castiel would look back at Dean, his blue eyes wide and careful and full of words; she remembers glancing at Sam, seeing the smile on his face, and bowing her head to pretend, like he did, that nothing was really going on.

It never bothered her. She’s grown up in a world of men. She knows that some things, men just don’t talk about.

But now – now she hopes the two pillocks know what they are doing, because after everything that happened –

“So we’re flying back?” Castiel asks, and Dean doesn’t look at him.

“Yeah,” he says, after a moment of silence. “I thought – we’re going back to the Bunker. In a few days or so. Unless – unless you don’t want to?”

The music finally changes; no longer a vexing Christmas song, but a soulful melody Toni recognizes, from her days of piano lessons, as Elgar’s _Serenade_.

“You’re angry with me.”

“No. No, Cas, I’m not angry.”

Toni should leave. This is a private conversation.

“I’m sorry.”

Dean makes a defeated, tired noise.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, but there is a whole other sentence in the words, and apparently Castiel can hear it, because he reaches out, puts the plate he was holding on the arm of the sofa, and turns to his left, his sharp profile serious and pale in the winter light.

“I lied to you,” he says. “I left without saying goodbye.”

“Cas –”

“It was wrong of me, but I – I didn’t know how else to leave. I didn’t know how to say goodbye to you.” A short silence, and then: “I never knew to be afraid of death before I met you.”

Toni’s heart withers inside her chest. Despite her best efforts, her file didn’t have much on Castiel, and most of it she couldn’t reconcile with the creature she’d finally met nearly ten months ago. _Seraphs are among the most powerful classes of angels_ , had read the first page of her report (merely a translation of Johanna Heyn’s _Seligpreisung_ ). _They are completely devoid of any human emotion. Do not mistake their sense of purpose for empathy. Be alert, and avoid confrontation at all times_. She thinks about the flash of incomprehension on Castiel’s face as she’d pressed her hand on the red sigil on the wall. She thinks about the way Castiel looks at Dean and Sam (and how even his might, his terrifying, alien fury can be controlled by the gentlest touch of Dean’s hand on his arm); about Castiel tilting his head to one side and turning a pencil between his fingers, serious and focused, when Fitz had tried to teach him how to play Battleships.

Dean passes a hand on the back of his head, his breath coming out in a broken half shudder.

“I – we don’t need to talk about it now, Cas. You’re okay. That’s – you’re okay,” he says, and this time he turns as well, and there’s such raw emotion in his eyes Toni finally takes a step back, moves away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, yay, it's John Donne again! The title of this chapter is a line _The Good-Morrow_. This poem was described as _two lovers who have turned their backs upon a threatening world and celebrate their discovery of a new world in each other_ [x], and I think that is a lovely way to think about Dean and Cas. I mean, _look_ at it (God, I love Donne so damn _much_ ):
> 
>  
> 
> _I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I_   
>  _Did, till we loved? Were we not weaned till then?_   
>  _But sucked on country pleasures, childishly?_   
>  _Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers’ den?_   
>  _’Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be._   
>  _If ever any beauty I did see,_   
>  _Which I desired, and got, ’twas but a dream of thee._
> 
> _And now good-morrow to our waking souls,_   
>  _Which watch not one another out of fear;_   
>  _For love, all love of other sights controls,_   
>  _And makes one little room an everywhere._   
>  _Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone,_   
>  _Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown,_   
>  _Let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one._
> 
> _My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,_   
>  _And true plain hearts do in the faces rest;_   
>  _Where can we find two better hemispheres,_   
>  _Without sharp north, without declining west?_   
>  _Whatever dies, was not mixed equally;_   
>  _If our two loves be one, or, thou and I_   
>  _Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die._


	27. December 25th (part two)

– Toni, her face a bit too pale, her eyes very, very bright.

Sam catches her elbow, steadies both of them.

“Sorry, I –”

“It’s fine. How are you holding up?” she asks, and he smiles at her.

Toni is wearing the same silk dress Sam had teased her about – after he’d escaped, before they’d fallen in love. He remembers those weeks – Dean and Cas out hunting while he remained behind and scrounged up every single bit of information he could find on her. When he’d discovered the picture – in a box labeled _Bob’s Charity_ he’d stolen from a retirement home – he’d texted her at once.

_You look mighty fine in blue_ , he’d said, trying to mark a point, to get back at her – to make her feel like prey, and not the huntress she’d apparently been for years, working tirelessly on her Winchester files.

A pause, and then – _That’s azure, you heathen. And I look even better wearing nothing at all._

Sam had scoffed and rolled his eyes behind Dean’s back for years, because his pining for Cas had been so obvious it was painful – but the truth was, he hated taking the initiative as well. He knew he could appear threatening, for one, and also that there was nothing he could offer anyone, really, not with his lifestyle. No, he normally stood back and allowed himself to be chosen – he’d noticed Toni’s increasingly pensive looks, and he’d realized, of course, that his escape had been no escape at all, but something she’d allowed to happen – but he would never have dared to –

But thank God _she_ had.

“I’m fine,” he says, automatically, and she steps up to him, kisses him on the lips.

“Liar,” she murmurs, against his mouth.

“I’m not lying,” he says, smiling. “Just – anticipating the truth.”

“Mh. I see I should have gotten you a dictionary for Christmas.”

Sam laughs, and Toni takes a step back, surveys the room.

“It’s a bit stuffy in here, isn’t it?”

“Nah, it’s okay.”

“I know it’s not what you’re used to.”

“They’re your people. It’s fine.”

“My people – precisely. I sometimes feel Fitz needs to know _different_ people,” she says, watching in disapproval at the small group of men – her father among them – who very likely control the whole city, if not the country.

“Hey, if it wasn’t for your dad,” Sam starts, and it’s perfectly true – according to Dean, Lord Bevell had showed up at the hospital a little after ten, shooed Dean out of the room, and somehow healed all of Cas’ remaining injuries.

“I thought they were supposed to be librarians, not fucking _wizards_?” Dean had said over the phone, but Sam hadn’t been fooled by the pretend bitterness.

Cas was okay, and nothing else mattered at all.

“Shut up, sweetheart. I’m trying to give you your Christmas gift here.”

“I – what?”

“Dean tells me you two haven’t been on a beach in years.”

“Okay,” Sam agrees, distracted by the mischief in her eyes.

“And I just thought – if I leave Fitz with my parents for more than a week, he’s bound to join the Tory party and run for local council by the time I get back. Probably in support of a fox hunting bill.”

“Your father isn't _that_ bad.”

“You haven’t known him _that_ long.”

Toni looks around again, then back at Sam.

“But still – as I was booking the trip, I realized it was indicated to include someone else – someone Fitz could socialize with.”

Sam grins.

“A babysitter, you mean?”

“I plan to have at least a couple of evenings where I can get you all to myself, yes,” she says, but before he can lean down and kiss her, she steps back, hands him a white envelope. “Happy Christmas.”

Sam opens it.

It’s tickets – five of them – for three weeks in South East Asia. Their flight to Bangkok leaves in two days.

“You’re insane,” he whispers, completely awed.

“I think you mean, 'Thank you.'” This time, though, she allows him to grab her waist and pull her close.

“I’ll _show_ you what I mean,” he says, and it’s both a threat and a promise: he kisses her, loving and deep, and the room around them fades into nothingness.


	28. January 3rd

The small jetty looks remarkably similar to a place Dean once saw in a dream. The details are a bit vague by now, but he seems to remember something like this – a stretch of wood pushing out over quiet waters.

Only, this is the ocean, and Cas is not worried and pressed for time (now, _that_ Dean remembers – Cas appearing out of nowhere, forcing a piece of paper into his hand; Cas clenching his jaw at Dean’s objections, even though, fucking _hell_ , Dean had been completely reasonable for fucking once, because this was his head, and what could be more fucking private than that; Cas saying, in that tone of voice Dean still hadn’t recognized as sarcasm, “Exactly. Someone might be listening.”). No, Cas is sitting quietly by his side, his legs crossed, and he’s just – existing, somehow. Looking at the ocean, at the way thousands of stars are reflected in the water.

“We did this once,” Cas says, suddenly, and Dean tries to pretend he hadn’t been staring.

“What?” he says.

“We looked at the stars. On the Bunker’s roof, remember?”

Yeah, as if Dean could forget something like that. He’d kissed Cas in the kitchen – for the first time – only two hours before, and he’d felt so – _scared_. Cas hadn’t given him any indication, no hint as to what to do next. Dean had wanted to – to take his hand, or some shit, but Cas had seemed content to lie on his back on the gritty concrete and babble on about constellations.

“That was nice,” he says, neutrally.

The thing is, he doesn’t know what’s going on between them. They’ve been here a week, and everything is perfect – the fine white sand, the coral reef. Toni has talked him into tasting coconut water, which Dean had initially turned down as too healthy, and he’s found, to his surprise, that it’s actually pretty damn good.

There was still no need for Sam to look so smug, though.

Or so well–fucked, for that matter.

There’s only so much brothers need to know about each other.

No, everything is okay, but Dean still can’t get over the nightmare of that fucking Christmas night – he’d thought he’d seen someone falling from the other side of the Piazza, and then he’d felt – it had been like a physical blow. Like something inside him had snapped, disappeared forever. And when he’d actually _seen_ Cas – the shape of his broken wings, stretching out in the snow –

And Dean wants, more than anything, to prove to himself Cas is alive. He wants to hug him and never let go. He wants to drag Cas over himself when the night is quiet and lonely, and get him so close he can feel Cas’ heart beat.

Because Cas’ heart _does_ beat, now.

Because Cas is human.

And he probably hates Dean’s guts, even though he hasn’t said anything.

Because if he didn’t, then why doesn’t he – hell, they’re sharing a room, after all.

“It was more than nice,” Cas says, a little too bluntly, as if proving a very controversial point, and Dean glances at him, smiles at the seriousness of his expression.

“Yeah? How was it, then?”

“You’d kissed me.” Cas almost sounds like he’s accusing Dean of some crime.

_You’d kissed me back_ , Dean wants to say, but he doesn’t. He’s starting to remember snippets of that other time in Hell – it’s like Cas breaking the lock finally set all those memories free – but he’s still trying to convince himself this was all some one–sided fantasy.

“Sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“Look, can we just – not talk about it?”

To his credit, Cas manages to stay silent for about thirty seconds.

“I don’t understand.” He brings his legs up and hugs his knees.

There’s a small cut, already healing, on the top of his left foot, and his skin is starting to tan. Dean’s never seen that before, and it makes his heart ache.

Also, there are a couple of mosquito bites, because Cas had tried talking the bugs into not biting him instead of using the repellent, and that had been _hilarious_.

Or, well – the _first_ part of it had been hilarious. The _second_ part – that moment when Cas had sat down on the bed, his head in his hands, as the truth of it all finally hit him – that he would never talk to animals, ever again; that he would never fly, or hear the music of falling snow, or the soft lapping of the waves of time as they moved in and out, bending and twisting around the fabric of the universe – yeah, that hadn’t been all that fun.

Dean sighs.

“I guess what I meant is – Cas, this is a new life for you, okay? And you can do whatever you want with it.”

“You know what I want.”

“Do I?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Cas says, very firmly.

“Okay, what’s that, then?”

“What we had before.”

“You mean – the hunting? Living in the Bunker?”

“I mean kissing,” Cas says, a bit truculently. “And hugging, and sex.”

Dean startles so much he almost falls into the water.

“ _What_?” he asks, even if that couldn’t have been clearer.

“I want to kiss you, and hug you, and have sex with you. I love you.”

Dean remains completely still for a long moment.

“Cas, I – I thought – why didn’t you –”

Cas looks up at him – incredibly, there’s still sand on his forehead, a thin spray of golden grains sticking to his tanned skin – and then away.

“I didn’t want to burden you,” he says, softly. “The way you were in the hospital – and the days after – I didn’t want you to make a hasty decision, to act out of pity.”

“A _hasty_ decision?” Dean asks, and okay, now he’s getting angry. “What the _fuck_ are you talking about?”

“Human beings do not have a clear mind after a loss, or a shock. They act in ways they later come to regret. It’s a flaw in the design, I guess.”

“Yeah, you’re human now, so tone down the attitude.”

“Exactly,” Cas says, and then he stands up, starts to walk back towards the beach.

“Hey, what the –”

Dean has barely the time to get up and grab Cas’ sleeve before Cas pushes him away.

“I’m _human_ ,” he almost shouts in his face; and then he adds, in a much lower voice. “I’m human.”

Dean doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing. Instead, he steps forward and hugs Cas, fiercely, desperately.

“You’re just you, Cas,” he says, when he feels Cas hugging him back. “You’ve always been you. This doesn’t change _anything_.”

“I’m not – I can’t –” Cas says, against Dean’s shoulder, and Dean just knows the idiot’s about to add some bullshit about not being able to help, or whatever.

“You don’t have to. You’re okay like this. I _like_ you like this, okay? Trust me.”

“You stayed away,” says Cas, very, very quietly, and Dean really doesn’t want Cas to see his face right now, so he hugs him a bit tighter.

“Not because I _wanted_ to. I just thought – maybe you wouldn’t – you know,” he says, lamely.

God, even at sixteen he’d been a smoother talker than this. What a mess.

Cas pushes him back, cleans a single wet tear from his cheek, almost impatiently.

“I _love_ you,” he says again. “I will _always_ love you. How can you not understand that?”

Dean licks his lips. It’s not like Cas hasn’t said the words before, but every time it’s – and why is it so damn _hard_ to say them back?

“You said no,” he says, because that’s the damn truth.

It’s still painful to think about that evening – God, he’d been so _angry_ – he’d stormed off to his room because he’d been afraid he’d pick a fight with Cas – in fact, he’d _yearned_ for it – not the fight, of course, but the physical side of it: the bliss of having his own thoughts beaten out of him.

But, well, Cas hated that. He hated fighting with Dean, and it was obvious he really didn’t want to put his hands on Dean. Not in that way. Never again. Because Cas was normal, and he could just pretend that shit in the diner had never happened at all – he’d probably forgotten all about it already, and –

Dean had ransacked his files, looking for a case. Killing something: that had been next on his list. And then his phone had buzzed inside his pocket, and he’d found a text from Sam – _Thanks for the tip – bought the Yamaha, Fitz is gonna love it_ – and he’d just sat down on his bed like an idiot, staring at the screen.

Because, yeah – he was over all that. He _wanted_ to be over all that. Hurting and being hurt in return just to feel something – to feel that he _mattered_ – Dean had breathed out and written back some kind of reply – _Good thing the kid’s gonna have a cool uncle, because you_ suck – and when he’d looked up, he’d found that photograph of him and Mom staring back at him.

And he’d known.

“I didn’t say no.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“Your soul was disturbed,” Cas says, as if this is a thing people say. “And I knew – I knew I was going to die soon. I didn’t want you to get used to – us.”

Dean almost laughs at the idiocy of it.

“Bit late for that,” he says, taking a step back, looking beyond Cas to the small bungalow where Sam is probably asleep by now, and up, all the way to that line where the dark mountain becomes sky again.

“I’m sorry if I hurt you,” Cas says, softly.

“It’s okay.”

And Dean shouldn’t be thinking about this, not right now, not when they’re trying to solve this thing between them and discussing the important subjects – feelings and stuff – but he can’t help it. Cas’ words swirls and swirls inside his mind ( _I want to kiss you, and hug you, and have sex with you._ ) and Cas is beautiful in the half light, and Dean remembers, so clearly it hurts, how it was when Cas was fully his. He remembers what Cas’ mouth tastes like, and how hot his skin had been under Dean’s fingers. He remembers undressing Cas in quick, fumbling little gestures, and he remembers Cas undressing him, the way he’d take forever and get distracted by everything – freckles, scars, even the fucking hair on his fucking calves. He remembers Cas’ eyes, always open, always focused on him, and the little sounds he’d been able to drag out of Cas, those waves of pleasure that had taken them both by surprise, because Cas had told him he wasn’t sure he could – not now he was a seraph again.

And the thing is, he misses all that like he would a part of himself. And if Cas really wants him – if that is really on the table again – how can Dean _not_ think about it? Their room is right _there_ , not sixty feet away. And this past week has been – Cas was never shy, never saw the point in it, so Dean would walk out of the shower and find Cas still naked, staring in disapproval at the clothes in the wardrobe, as if every single item had somehow offended him. And Dean would pretend that wasn’t a big deal – he’d walk up to Cas, select a couple of things for him to wear – including boxers, because Cas would forget about them if not prompted, and _that_ , Dean could not do: go through an entire dinner knowing Cas was sitting commando by his side.

But nights had been the worst time. Dean had been so afraid he’d end up curling against Cas in his sleep, he’d ended up inching closer and closer to the edge of the bed instead. And every night, as he listened to the quiet sound of Cas’ breathing, he swore to himself that that was it – that he couldn’t take it any longer – that in the morning, he’d ask the staff for a different room, and if Toni and Sam had something to say to that, they could go _fuck_ themselves –

But he never did. He _wanted_ to share a room with Cas. He wanted to share a _bed_ with Cas. And he wanted all those other things, too. And every day, he waited and waited and hoped Cas would make a move, or give him a hint, and now –

_God._

He sits down on the pier again, his naked feet dangling in the warm water, and after a short moment, Cas sits down next to him.

“When you said you wanted to have sex, did you mean,” Dean says, after a few minutes, and then he stops.

Damn it, it shouldn’t be so difficult to talk about these things. He’s a grown–ass man.

Cas glances at him, looks away again.

“Yes,” he says firmly, because he’s wonderful and he knows exactly what Dean means.

“Are you sure? Because last time, you didn’t want to.”

“That was under different circumstances,” Cas says, and this is clearly bullshit, because it had been the same thing as it is right now – the two of them, together.

Dean remembers every detail of it – how his hand had slowed down, then stopped; Cas hadn’t protested, because that’s not who Cas is, but he’d dug his fingers in Dean’s thighs, as if to anchor himself, had exhaled deeply – always a telltale sign, that, since he didn’t need to breathe at all.

“Is something wrong?” he’d asked, and Dean had bent down to kiss him.

“No,” he’d whispered, against Cas’ mouth. “I just – why don’t we try something different?”

But Cas had said no.

Which, in a way, had reassured Dean – proven to him that Cas wasn’t doing this just for Dean, but for himself, as well. That he knew this was a give and take, and it was okay to say no.

But at the same time –

“I knew I was going to leave you soon, and the importance that act would have for you.”

Dean snorts.

“Cas, it’s not the fucking forties. I can take care of myself.”

“Is that so?” asks Cas, and this time he turns, stares at him with that unwavering, serious blue gaze of his – and for a second, Dean forgets Cas is now human. “How many times had you done it before, then?”

And this is unfair. Like, on an _epic_ scale. Because it’s not like Dean is some blushing virgin – the problem is, this requires a partner he can sort of trust, and a bit of time, and possibly a room, and not the back of some alley. And those things have been in short supply in his life.

“You know how many,” he says, half embarrassed, half annoyed. “Doesn’t mean it has to mean something special.”

Cas is still looking at him, because, of course, he’s seen all of Dean’s memories when he’s put him back together and knows the answer to that – almost once and then too many to count – although he would know, the bastard, because _too many to count_ is not a measure an angel’s brain would ever recognize.

Dean suddenly wonders if Cas even understands it at all – the fact what they’d done to him in Hell had been more about humiliation than pain, because men are not supposed to want that, to get off on that; _real_ men, that is.

(Not him – never him, a voice says inside his mind; but even that knee–jerk reaction is fading – it’s becoming a distant, out of tune thing.

Because Dean doesn’t care anymore, about any of that.

Hell, there’s nothing wrong with it, and he deserves to be happy.)

And that’s maybe the reason Dean’s never done this for real before – he’d tried it with a chick, just before going downstairs, and, of fucking course, Sam had walked in as she was prepping him – the other girl had slammed the door in Sam’s face, and thank _God_ it’d been a chick and a dildo on the bedspread and not the real thing – no way he would have been able to brush that off as pre–Hell bucket list. Not a _chance_.

No, Cas probably thinks it’s all normal. That you want whatever you want, and there’s no shame in it.

After all, he hadn’t realized those people had jeered at them in a diner just because they’d been sitting too close, so.

“I never wanted to deceive you,” Cas says. “It was not about not wanting you – I want you. Always.”

“Okay, that’s – uh – good,” Dean says, and this time he can feel himself blushing, because, goddammit, why must Cas be such a girl about everything?

“So you want to do that tonight?” Cas asks next, and what is it about this fucking conversation? Why is he not affected at all, why does it feel like they’re talking about the fucking _weather_?

“Uh – yeah. Okay,” Dean says, and he knows he’s blushing more than ever.

“Do you have lube?” Cas asks next, very politely, and then he actually looks at Dean’s pockets, as if –

“Yeah, we’re not going to do that _here_. Uh – uh. Let’s – let’s go back to the room.” Dean stands up a bit too quickly, and he doesn’t even know why he’s so fucking embarrassed.

Cas stands up as well, and Dean realizes, from the expression in his eyes, that despite this weird–ass conversation they’re having, they haven't even kissed yet.

“I apologize for the misunderstanding. It’s – difficult,” Cas says, and he frowns.

“What is?”

Again, Cas stares at him, tilting his head a bit to the side, as he’d done until – well – last week.

“I can’t see your soul any longer,” he says, very quietly. “And it’s – I –”

Dean’s not very good with relationships, or people, or even being himself, but he can hear the huge sense of loss in the words well enough. He clears his throat, looks away, then at Cas again.

“Well, it’s still here. I think.”

“I know.”

Cas still sounds forlorn, and Dean hesitates, then steps closer to him.

“Look, I can’t – I don’t know what that’s like,” he says, awkwardly. “But I know it must suck.”

He’s about to add he sort of went through that – when he’d lost his black eyes, he’d lost a lot of other things too – as a demon, or an honorary demon, as Crowley had liked to call him, Dean had been able to see in the dark, and to sniff some emotions on people – not everything, and – as far as he knows – his skills had been nowhere near as precise as Crowley’s – and he can only guess how an _angel_ sees the world – but still. He’d smelled, and clearly enough, greed and lies and malice. Also lust, and that had been exhilarating – to pleasure a woman and see exactly what it was doing to her, all the way to her brain and her lungs and her heart beating faster and faster.

But he doesn’t want to say that. It’d be douchey of him. And it’s nothing like what Cas is going through, anyway.

“I want you to talk to me, okay? When you’re – when you can’t deal, or whatever. And you don’t need to see my soul, man. I’ll tell you, okay? I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

Cas seems to mull it over for a second; and then his eyes spark with that thing Dean now recognizes as mischief.

“Everything?” he asks, seriously, and, yep, Dean’s just walked into a goddamn trap here.

“Yes,” he says, because what else can he say?

“Tell me why, then.”

“Why what?”

“Why you gave me that ring.”

Dean passes a hand on the back of his neck, looks out at the silent mass of the ocean. Everything is quiet and peaceful, because where’s an apocalypse when you need one? God, he’d give _anything_ to have an eighty feet demonic kraken crawl on this beach right now.

_Just joking_ , he adds, hastily, in case Chuck is listening – and the thought that _that_ is a possibility makes the situation so much _worse_.

“I was trying to ask you – uh,” Dean says, and there’s nothing after that.

Cas is still looking at him, and now his gaze has softened somehow, which, yeah. Not helping.

“Oh come on – you _know_ why people give each other rings,” he blurts out; and, again, he turns around, breathes in the night air, heavy with salt.

“That’s not what I was asking,” says Cas’ voice from behind him, so, yeah – turns out human Cas is just as much of a shifty bastard as angel Cas.

Dean sighs, closes his eyes in resignation.

“You know about Jenny, right?” he says, after what feels like a long time.

“Yes,” Cas says, sounding uncertain.

“That’s why.”

There is another long pause, and then –

“I know Jenny Hudson was a girl you met when you were six,” Cas says, carefully. “I know she’s now a surgeon at Chicago Memorial. Or was, eight days ago. As to what she’s doing right this moment, I no longer –”

“It’s okay, Cas. I don’t need to know what Jenny had for dinner, or anything,” Dean says, but finds he’s stupidly proud of her all the same – a fucking _surgeon_ – _Way to go, Jen_.

He hears Cas moving a step closer, but doesn’t turn around. If he’s gonna talk about any of this, he can’t look at him.

“So you know we, uh, almost got married.”

“When you were six,” Cas adds, and he sounds like he’s afraid he’s missing something here.

“Yeah. I never told anyone before. I don’t think even Sammy knows about this.”

Dean pushes his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans, allows himself to go back to those days – a scorching hot summer, and the smell of Jenny’s shampoo – a strong, strawberry thing that had both enticed him and repulsed him. He doesn’t remember all that much – just flashes, really – but he knows Sam had been a menace. _No_ – that had been his favorite word all summer.

“We’d been staying in this motel outside of Cleveland, and man – even by Dad’s golden standards, the place was _shitty_.”

Now _that_ , he remembers. The bugs and the roaches and the weird discolored patches on the sheets and the broken fridge.

“So, I guess you know everything about this, but – in the room next to ours there was this other family – a mom and a kid, about my age. Jenny. She had all those little braids and was ten times smarter than me. Used to boss me around all the time – would decide what to play, slam the door in my face when she needed to to her chores, that kind of thing.”

Suddenly, Jenny’s very real in front of him – Dean remembers the first time they’d met: he’d been getting a soda at the machine, and this girl had come out of her room, stuck her hand out.

“Jenny Hudson,” she’d said, as if it'd had been a goddamn business meeting; but she hadn’t minded that Dean’s hand was sticky with sweat, or that his clothes were a bit torn and a bit dirty, or that his hair had been cut over the sink by a drunk.

No, she’d just smiled at him, her teeth very white against her dark skin, and that had been it.

“You became friends,” Cas says, uncertainly, from behind him, and, of course, he still doesn’t get it – how could he?

Dean shakes his head, finally turns around.

Cas looks very small in this light, and Dean’s still not used to seeing him in normal clothes – right now, he’s wearing a light–blue polo shirt and linen pants – stuff Toni packed for him, probably – and he looks like something that should be on the cover of _Summer at the Hamptons_. So it’s not that these clothes don’t suit him, but – yeah.

“Jenny’s mom – her dad had left, I think, and her mom, she was even worse than Dad,” he says, and he finds it’s getting easier and easier to say this; the sense of disloyalty is barely there anymore, because this is also Dean’s story, and he has a right to tell it. “Never seen her sober. And, yeah, I was sort of okay with that, you know? With Dad being out of it all the goddamn time – it was much harder to be around him when he was all there, you know – but Jenny used to yell at her mom, and kick her, and whatever. And then one day she just knocked on our door and asked me if I had any nice clothes.”

Dean shakes his head. God, that _kid_ – she’d been quite something.

“She forced me to steal one of Dad’s shirts, can you believe that? The thing came almost all the way down to my knees.”

“I remember that,” Cas says, almost fondly. “You looked – peculiar.”

“Yeah, that’s one word for it. But Jenny – she had it all figured it out. Her mom and my dad – they’d snapped after, you know – because they were alone. So marriage was the way out of it – as soon as we got married, Jenny told me, someone would give us a house with a garden out front and Sammy could play there and everything would be just fine.”

Dean doesn’t feel like smiling anymore. They’d been _kids_ , goddammit.

“Dean –”

“The priest managed to track down Dad. He drove us back to the motel, dropped Jenny off at her room, packed up everything while I yelled and begged. He didn’t even allow Sam out of the car. He wanted to leave at once. And then he told me, well – everything. That my job was not to get married or whatever, but to take care of Sam because monsters were after him. Because monsters were real and had killed mom and – yeah.”

Dean knows Cas already knows about all this, but it still feels good to tell him, and, actually, he wouldn’t mind if Cas hugged him right now; but of course, Cas doesn’t read minds any longer, and Dean’s promised him like, five fucking minutes ago that he would tell him these things, but he just can’t. He turns away instead, looks at the black water which at some point becomes black sky, though it’s hard to say when that happens. And he doesn’t recognize any of the stars, either – not that he was ever any good with them, but he can usually get by – back home. Here, however –

He passes his hands on his face, forces himself to face Cas again, because this proposal was shitty to begin with, but the least he can do for the guy is fucking look him in the eyes.

“So, look, I know it doesn’t mean squat, and we can’t do it right, because you don’t even have a name and I’m supposed to have died, like, ten years ago, but I still wanted – I thought –”

He doesn’t have the ring, obviously. It’s probably still where he’d thrown it – in a corner of his room, back at the Bunker. He fishes inside his pocket, finds a shell Fitz has given him earlier today – a thing of spirals and shiny chocolate colours.

Feeling like the biggest idiot who ever lived, he offers it to Cas, who stares down at it.

“Dean, what is this?”

“Forever. If you want,” Dean says, simply, and that’s the goddamn truth.

He knows he’s not supposed to do this, and this is not what Cas had asked him at all, and they’re both still messed up and a thousand other things – but he doesn’t want to wait. He may be crap at saying it, but he knows he loves Cas, can feel the heat of it – the heavy mass pressing against his ribcage, threatening to spill out. And he wants this like he’s never wanted anything in his life.

As Cas looks down at the small shell in Dean’s palm, Dean suddenly remembers how that other proposal had ended – remembers seeing that closed expression on Cas’ face as Cas walked away – remembers calling after him, as pathetic as a twelve–year–old girl.

_Is it_ me _? Is something wrong with_ me _?_

“I’m human now,” Cas says, his eyes still glued to the shell; and he sounds –

“I don’t care. God, I don’t _care_ ,” Dean says, and he tries to make the bastard _understand_ – he takes another step forward, and he wants to – hug Cas, or kiss Cas, but Cas is still looking so goddamn sad and lonely Dean can’t –

“I can’t do anything for you.”

“ _Jesus_ , I don’t – I don’t want you doing _anything_. This would change _nothing_ , Cas.”

“Then why is it important to you?”

God, this is exactly why Dean hates talking, about anything. He knows how he feels, and he knows what he wants, but, like the ocean around them, so clear in the daylight and now a black, whispering mass, something always goes wrong when he tries to put those things in words.

“It’s not about,” he says, and then he closes his fingers around the shell in frustration. “It’s not about some big – whatever, Cas. About getting waffle makers, or –”

Okay, and now Cas is looking at him like he thinks Dean’s losing it, and –

“I just – something about what Jenny wanted stuck, okay? I never thought I’d get married because I always – Jesus, I don’t _know_ , okay? It’s like getting married meant I was going to be safe. Okay, somehow. Like things were going back to normal, and the thing is – my life’s never been normal. It’s been – you know,” he says, lamely, and Cas nods.

“But this is what I want with you. A normal life. You and me. And it doesn’t matter what you are, and if you can sniff fucking diabetes on people or not – that was never why I fell in love with you. You _gotta_ know that,” he says, the thing coming out more like a question than anything, and he’s not even aware of what he’s said until he sees the way Cas is looking at him.

“What?” Dean blurts out, after a few seconds, and Cas almost smiles.

“Nothing,” he says. “Go on.”

“Go on?” Dean asks, incredulously. “Dude, I – that’s _it_.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah.”

“I was led to believe things would be rather different,” says Cas, in that voice that could be both cluelessness and sass.

“ _What_?”

“A proposal – in visual medias –”

Dean finally understands where this is going, and he clutches the shell a bit tighter, feeling both anxious and slightly relieved and also more than a bit outraged.

“Cas, I’m not – I’m not fucking _kneeling_ for you. And you hate champagne,” he adds, and that’s God’s honest truth – Toni had tried treating them the first couple of days, before realizing the finer things in life were wasted on all of them – Dean and Cas and that damn sasquatch Toni had chosen for herself.

“Are you absolutely _sure_ it’s wise for you to make any decisions so soon after –”

“Jesus, I’m _fine_ , okay?”

“Sam says otherwise.”

Dean rolls his eyes, because, yeah, that’s exactly the kind of idiot his brother is: someone who would blabber about what happened at the hospital – about Dean being taken into a room himself and shushed and forced into getting a shot of whatever bullshit – _shock_ , the thing in his file had said; and some douche’d even had the nerve to write him a prescription for sleeping pills, like he’d had any plans of sleeping while Cas was down the hall and –

Dean had thrown it in the trash, because so he’d panicked – _fine_. Who wouldn’t have? The thing in the snow – Cas’ body, his wings stretching out like fine black lace on either side of him – he’d been dreading that exact image for fucking _years_ , and when he’d thought it had finally happened –

And the fact he’d managed to come clean to Cas, the fact Cas had _wanted_ him – for a while, that was – that hadn’t made things better. If anything, it’d made them _worse_. It had proven, somehow, that it was all bullshit – this feelings business, and falling in love – Dean had been determined, in an unfocused, childish way, never to love anyone again after it’d become clear – because Dad had shouted it at him – that Mom was never coming back. But then Sam had crawled into that space and shattered it from the inside out, so, yeah – the _one_ thing Dean had wanted for his life – that wasn’t going to happen. He was just _that_ weak. He was never able to stop himself – it’d been almost a sickness. As a teenager, he’d fallen in love twenty times a day. All he’d need was a kind word, or a glance, and he’d find himself thinking about it when he was training – wrestling, running, weights and weapons – of what his life would be like with that cute girl from English lit, or that funny guy from the baseball team. He’d tried to push against it – to make himself into what Dad wanted and Sam needed – but he’d never –

And then Cas had crashed into his life.

And, yeah, Dean remembers it a bit better now – most of those memories are still missing, but he’s had flashes, here and there – a bright, sunny city, and Charlie laughing at him, and this man right here looking at them both, his eyes brimming with wordless affection. He remembers a moment at the beach – leaning over, only just, a thousand pebbles pressing and shifting under his body – to almost kiss the stranger who’d come to save his life. He remembers fighting Crowley, fiercely and messily, and yet as weak as a kitten against the strength of a demon with the whole of Hell behind him, as Cas had stepped back from him, back into the searing white light that was his other self, burning with confidence and righteousness.

Those moments in Hell are still not clear inside his mind, and Dean doesn’t know if they count or not. And he doesn’t know when he fell in love with the real Cas, either. He remembers that _son of a bitch_ moment he’d experienced when Cas had walked into that barn, but it’d been a gradual thing, really – a slow moving through all the goddamn feelings a person can feel – from disbelief to hope to resentful disappointment; and then grief, and trust, and –

No, Dean doesn’t know when it happened. When a vague _Jesus, look at his fucking eyes_ had become that messy _I need you_ Cas had forced out of him in Lucifer’s crypt. But it doesn’t matter, in a way. He’s always feared Cas wouldn’t feel the same way, because, of course, Cas is perfection and Dean is simply not worth it, but as long as Cas is okay and alive and happy, it doesn’t even –

“Yes,” Cas says, and then he says it again, because he clearly thinks Dean hasn’t heard him; and when Dean still doesn’t react in any way – Dean wants to, but it’s just – Cas moves closer, takes Dean’s hand between his own, uncurls his fingers and gets the shell Dean was clutching so tight it’s a miracle it didn’t break. “ _Yes_.”

Dean looks down at their entwined fingers, and suddenly he can’t bear the distance between them for another _second_. He brings his other hand up, fists it in Cas’ hair, and pulls.

Cas almost falls against him, but he reacts instinctively, as if they’ve done this a thousand times before: he tilts his head up, and now they’re kissing; a hurried, desperate thing at first – Cas moves his hands on Dean’s hips, and Dean hugs him back, seeking even more contact between them – and then something a bit quieter and intimate; something about joy and love and that forever they’ve just promised each other under a sky full of stars.

“This is a bit what it felt like,” Cas says, against Dean’s lips.

“What?”

“Seeing your soul.”

Dean shakes his head, tries kissing the words off Cas’ mouth.

“You can’t say stuff like that,” he says, and can almost feel Cas frown.

“Because it’s gay?” he asks, and Dean laughs.

“Uh, no. Because it –”

He stops, tries to control himself – his heart and his lungs and his stupid, hopeful dick – but Cas is still looking at him in that way he has, both serious and completely focused, and Dean gives up, kisses him again.

“Because it’s so good it almost hurts,” he whispers in the end, and yeah, it’s a shitty way of saying what he’s thinking – that his heart is only that big, and if Cas puts even more love into it, it’ll burst and rip through his chest, but Cas gets it anyway.

“I love you, too,” he says, and that, somehow, makes perfect sense; that is, in fact, everything.


	29. Afterword

Guys - thank you so much for reading. <3

And, well - maybe this is a bit Paul Simon of me, but I ended up pouring a lot of my heart and soul into this story, so I’ll do it anyway. 

**Thank you**. I don't know why I fell in love with _Supernatural_ , but I did, and falling in love is often a painful, messy thing - sharing it with you guys has been a unique experience. All my love for the people who left kudos and comments and bookmarked my stories and liked and reblogged my metas and pmed me on [tumblr](http://awed-frog.tumblr.com/) and became my friends; and all my love to my wonderful beta, [**grey2510**](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grey2510/pseuds/grey2510), who is a fantastic writer in her own right and did a great job helping me out with this story. She switched from teacher mode to best friend mode to sassy bitch and tearful mess and back again and left adorable notes in the margins and my _God_ , Grey, I was so afraid about this thing - giving up my story, naked and unfinished and unpolished, for someone else to read, but you were the _best_. And all the love to my wonderful artist, [**heartmurmur**](http://emrysmerlin.tumblr.com/), who did such an _amazing_ job and I can't even. Because I don’t know how you did it, Cristine, but you took something that was just words on paper (and not even that, really - stupid 0s and 1s on a screen) and turned it into colours and magic. And, _wow_. Guys, please remember to leave kudos on the [Art Masterpost](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8296882), because she really deserves it.

And if you liked this story - if you’d like to read other stories I wrote, here are my favourite.

[_The Law of Equivalent Exchange_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5114240/chapters/11765849) (reincarnation fic, free will and destiny, tragic love story, canon compliant) - In 1270 BC, Castiel is the angel of tears, and his mission is to watch over the death of Dan, grandson of Cain and the young king of Nod. What he doesn’t know, though, is that Dan and his brother Sarid will not be allowed to die. Instead, their souls will live on and on - through centuries of short, brutal human lives - and if this is unprecedented and a sin and unfair, it doesn’t matter - it is what the Lord commands. And so Castiel will watch over Dan for three thousand years, and in learning Dan's human heart, he will learn his own.

[_Autrement Danger_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6100813/chapters/13984570) (case fic, Dean and Sam work on their issues, siren exposes everyone’s priorities) - The battle against Amara has been won, and Cas gave Dean an ultimatum: he will stay on Earth, but only if Dean asks him to. Meanwhile, Sam is considering a relationship with Eileen but is still haunted by memories of Jess. And then a siren appears, and everything goes from bad to worse. Difficult conversations, a bit of heartbreak, trueform!Cas. Read the [destielfanfic.com](http://destielfanfic.com/) review [here](http://destielfanfic.com/post/142822638692/autrement-danger-or-the-account-of-an).

[_Bedsharing Blues_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5982736/chapters/13748551) (a Valentine fic, not exactly what it says on the tin) - Lucifer is possessing Cas, and Dean knows he will be sick if he thinks about it and Sam feels all shades of guilt and terror about Lucifer being back and Crowley is sure they’ll all die, anyway. Set late in season 11, canon compliant up until S11E10. My most romantic fic to date, and the fluffiest ending ever.

(And, if you’re curious about my take on Toni -

[_Everything I Do (I Do It for You)_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6984448/chapters/15915130) \- A season 11 coda, short and sweet. Cas is lost and sad, Sam is lost and sad, and Dean is confused af, except not really. A fic about feelings and fake passports and the return of the Once and Future King.)

And also - there’s this great Italian writer, Beppe Fenoglio, who’s unusual in many ways - one of them is that his most famous novel is written half in Italian and half in English, and this is the style of his personal diaries, as well. Anyway, Fenoglio once wrote “Scrivo with a deep distrust and a deeper faith” and that sentence, somehow - it tore me apart. Because I’ve always written stories, I started writing when I was six years old and never stopped, but most of my life I wrote with more distrust than faith. I wrote for myself, and I tried pretending it was just a hobby - something that would be discarded when more important things came along. Only I now realize that those ‘more important things’ - they’re just not there. There is nothing else I’d rather do. And it’s becoming harder and harder to carry on and pretend everything’s alright - I’m lucky enough that I often work on my own and I work on a laptop, anyway, so when people ask what I’m doing I always say I’m working and then I get these half admired, half exasperated glances, because _It’s Saturday evening_ and because _You’ve been sitting there for the last four hours_ and whatever - but then last year I started using one of those productivity apps to track my hours in the booth and during that period I was writing _The Law of Equivalent Exchange_ and - it honestly _scared_ me, to see how much time I was spending on that story, and how I hadn’t noticed at _all_. I would sit down at my desk at nine in the morning, and then look up at some point, wondering if it was time for lunch yet - and Jesus, it was five in the _evening_. And during that time - I was both there and not there. And I know this far from unique, I’m sure it’s a feeling many of you can relate to - artists and writers and readers and people who are deeply passionate about something - but still - I now realize human life is finite, and I know this is what I want to do with mine. I want to tell stories. And this is why - guys, I think I’ll continue to write fanfiction, because [I love it](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6021031) and because I care so damn much these characters it _hurts_ , but I’m also working on two original novels and I hope I’ll be able to submit them to a publisher in 2017. Not that I know how any of this works, and I’d be grateful for any advice, but this is it - I can’t wait any longer. And I don’t know exactly what is it that I’m saying here - just - if you like my writing, please help me out with this. Maybe - I don’t know - read my stories and rec them to other people? Or follow me on [tumblr](http://awed-frog.tumblr.com/)? I honestly have no idea if it will help with getting a real novel published, but surely it can’t hurt? And, whatever happens - **thank you**. The support and love and friends I found in the _Supernatural_ fandom - both on AO3 and tumblr - you guys gave me the confidence to keep working on original content, made me smile on stormy days and cry the right kind of tears and squeal with joy and it meant so, so _much_. So thank you again, and a big hug to everyone.

Love,

Noah


End file.
